". . .all generations will count me blessed." — Luke 1:48

She threw her head back, this girl,
and sang out a song of fierce joy,
of thrones overturned, vast armies
conquered, the least of these upthrust
and upheld, this cry of triumph
leaping up from her throat into
the smoky air.

She saw herself in a dance
she would later dream about. Astonished,
she opened her heart, this girls, and the song
poured forth. It was a spring gushing up,
water of life flowing, breaking rods
and chains like branches in the wind,
a scirocco in the wilderness,
a tempest over Galilee.

It is an arrow to the heart, the heart,
in time, pierced through and through.
Silence at windows, dead embers raked.
Honor and reverence and mute memory.

But now, here, this moment: all is glory.