There is a child in soft folds of cloth.
She breathes in the fragrance
Of a billion prayers on the altar.
And there is a place for her there,
In the Shamah cloth, enfolded.
She feels the hand stroke her brow,
Ease the troubling thoughts
That alight like crows in the pine
Tree on the garden verge.
A restless bicker of caws
Is hard to silence.
She feels the greeting of a kiss like whispers
On her forehead,
Until every thought flies free.
The pine soughs in the wind
Of his breath on her face.
She can smell the resin he collected
In the night watch, ever wakeful.
She can see the intentions of his
Heart are for her ever good.
Folding deeper into softness of
The Shamah cloth, invitation
She grows into the gift of One who is,
One who is There.