Take heart for the cold of hatred is brief in fury
Though I would prefer the cold of nature to bury.
I have heard of such places, the wind wicked cold
The water hard, so hard it cuts. My sister, my sister,
Who lives there prays by the fire that keeps the winter at bay.
The men of that country, she says, glide upon the water
The water takes all the men away and they sail beyond the sun.
The water, all fresh and cold and haunted keep the men away.
She sits there and talks to God and speaks to Him about me.
My sister, says she to God, will know of me some day.
Our children are of one or the other; for me in their graves
For her never started. We say little of their missing laughter
We say little of their missing sisters, brothers, and their play,
While in the daytime as she spins the thread that twists and curls
And I weave the nights away.
My sister steps out of her old stone house and listens to the rain
In Spring, while I listen to the sand and heat slide in a secret sacred way.
She thinks of me in the dry seasons and she prays. I walk beneath
The dome of the universe and sing to the man that once shared
This cape of love with me – and listen to what God says she prayed.
During the day, while in the heat I let salt water drip from my eyes,
Once brilliant, clear, in pools white as milk and my husband would gaze at me
Amazed. My sister has never known such love, such passion. I have
Never known her days of silent peace. We pray for one another.
We keep faith with God and wait to know the day we meet.
I will teach her to weave and love, she will teach me the love of silence.