When I was at the temple this morning, I had a poem come to me. Abe was so sweet and let me go to lunch after and write it out.
She is the sonnet, dust of the divine
Infinity incarnate, bipedal spirit.
Her garden walled in weakness, flesh and fat,
She: The great molecular paradox.
Daughter, mother, wife, she-friend of the Friend,
Acting on the messy-hued backdrop
Of mixed intentions. Healing, hurt, wounded, whole,
Begotten Maker–her rest, sweet repose.
Sifter of messages, media, words;
Speaking, hunting, searching, skimming, hearing
Static noise and still spiritual thunder
Sorting seas of verbiage to find the Word.
The grinding search summed up in one sentence:
She–with the ears–hears God in her own mouth.