Unless I die I cannot live
Pushing through life like tall grass
Wresting the hands that pull me back
Falling, sometimes staying down
Until lifted by the Commander
I weep into his shoulder
Rasping again that I cannot,
He reiterates, "you can."
Feebly loving my lover
Whose death, ten times the agony
Was given ten times more eagerly
Than my little deaths
Sprouting out of narrow lives
I cannot keep
But cling to still, a fool
Knowing her foolishness
Yet wringing weak drops of joy
From joyless rags
When my lover waits
With a pashmina shawl
Woven in love
Dipped in mhyrr
And I, preoccupied with my rag, reject
The fragrant gift, and struggle on.
But when I weary of my wringing,
My hands, exhausted, bruised and aching
Drop beside me, my eyes raising
To the risen dier with his gift
Woven of words and grace and promise
He wraps it round my shoulders
Warming, reassuring
And lulling me to peace.
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