the busy of eager heart
drowning red ochre
in the guided weight
of your devotion,
turning your back
to a prayer rug,
she warns to never face skyward
when you are dreaming
in the dark like this.
shifting body canvas
knit on the lap
of Nehanda
and her girl-children,
nights at a time
on quiet moons.
The way morning
could shape you,
do war with your shaddows
and first light dawning
from the ending eclipse in your eyes.
spilling smiles onto
solemn lips,
a glimpse of miracles
in your breathing
there is a tone-deaf way of seeing
you this beautiful
beyond colour
beyond speaking.
quiet in my nativity.
Copyright © 2011 Arielle John
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