I find a page at the century's end
where time climbs out of the cosmos
into the petals which fall on my hand.
The wind ruffles my neat book
back to beginnings,
to God who rocked in the bone.
Leaves flap across crystal,
ripple the facets of famine and war,
flutter moon-play over a star
in the grip of the law of substance and work.
There is a diffusion of lives
through the passage of peace
where earth is efficient with lace,
the intricate weave of the prayer shawl.
The heart of matter
holds to its binding:
this woman who sits
in her cool home,
waiting and waiting,
her spindle idle,
reading her book of hours,
while I bring
bitter herbs,
death herbs,
gold.
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