Publish the Word
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Yeshua -- 3, Journey South

In the beginning. . .
was the word

 The Lord gave the word: great was the company of those that published it. Psalms 68:11

 

iii  Journey South

 

Early morning roadside lilies withered, frosted,

     dust-wrapped as she passed and as the road

bore down, the valley's daily fanfare not yet

 

unfolded, but sun reconnoitered atop an eastern ridge

     and lit the river, roused the rooks and starlings

from acacia stands.  A rooster fluttered past,

 

announced her coming; a wayfaring caravan fed

     her bread with boiled eggs.  She wearied on

toward Judah to her kinswoman's, a cousin,

 

herself expectant.  She dreamed she slept

     between steps, a snatch of lulling birdsong,

pillar of sun to lean upon, sandals wearing thinner.

 

Her dilemma grew, as too, the child nestled within.

     Light seemed a transparent veil, beaming down,

a vortex she was center of.  She heard herself talking:

 

to whom?  A flea-eaten mongrel slinking away?  An

     itinerant bee?  She waded in, rocky, shivery, hem

wet, water frothing her ankles:  knee-deep, midstream,

 

silent witness to the river's ceaseless, onward rushing,

     never-always sameness, her frail reflection

breaking upon her touch, to sip a palm of sky, to rinse

 

her hair, hours closer.  Everything seemed possible.

     A leaf boat drifted past, a silver heart, spinning,

going where?  She was a child.  The year was 3790.