Feast

We sit in a clearing
as wind pulses through trees,
moves hearts to quiver.
We gather close, tuck children
like chicks under wing.
We feel like the last people
at the end of the world,
alone escaped of Israel.

Jacob interprets Isaiah
by God’s gift. He speaks of hand
stretched out, ready to winnow
and whittle a remnant.
We feel the old story flow—
riven cities and abandoned families
sink deep, new layers
we know ourselves.

We pick through ancient words,
glean our shade by day, beacon by night.
The future seems aloof—we scarcely dare
to hope for someone soon
to part the curtain over tables laid
with fresh bread, water drawn
from saving wells, fruit
so sweet that tasting tunes
our tongues to angel song.

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• Contact me at merrijane.rice@gmail.com