Psalm 131
she paints a still life—
its bowl of golden apples
waiting whole
on time’s table, in flit
and flicker of candle
flaming through the pane
of a dimmed window;
a round loaf risen
beneath the days broken
beside a scarlet rose
limp, woven;
and lone daisy, a vase’s grazing
of death and life, wound;
while at the table’s rim
two seashells sound
brushed thin with the sands
of soft shore
and at its core, a pale skull,
the careful sockets
reminiscent of that gray
Golgotha, what is ours. . .
so she paints in stilled light
beneath the divine life
rising above shadows
of the illumined table
of still beauty
and quiet soul.