“As the divine rays Filtered through There ignites a place A part of many sums The mother touched The most silvery light Soft, tender, and might Laced her fingers With sparks, a sparkle Of sort.
She was aflame, Screaming joy She dug deep, deep A cross punctuates A star amidst the maker.
Her child, in wonder Of what is, but love Guided her hands To clip every bead Every chain, a mark Of syncopated time Working feverishly She reached the tug In her mother’s heart Holy Father, we asked Bowed down unmasked And prayed, prayed A mother’s love aflame.
From heavens above The beads, the chain The cadence of ten The joy, the perfect Round of cold and warmth Of wonder roundabout Love puts it in motion Though the repetition Is not enough, the completion Is cast. Understood or not Except for the love That binds.
The mother wore the beads On her head There hangs the Cross With the sparkle It swung The cross etched In her mind She watched it Weave space & time And she wore A veil of love My child, my God Swinging Swinging In a syncopated place.”