I ponder your images;
I flick through some familiar ones:
Maiden low, mother meek,
Sometimes a lady of pain and sorrow.
Then I close my eyes
And let your spirit visit me.
I see a woman leaning in work
With lines on her face – not young.
And as you lift up your head
I see what your veil conceals –
A woman of intelligence
And of understanding,
Your role defined by the times,
Your heart deep and discerning.
Your heart is inscribed
With intricate patterns of life
And rhythms of the seasons,
And bears the scars
Of life under occupation
And of your son’s execution.
This heart I see
And I let myself fall into it,
Because this heart enfolds
Adonai.