by Katie Joy Nellis

I have lost count of years, and today

they do not matter

at all.

To the young, years are important;

to we who wait so long,

each added hour feeds our small

abyss, waiting for His greater one

to swallow up the whole.

There is no counting

love or prayers on fingers.

Everything is given, heady

with abandon,

even if the gasps of wonder at it

rasp out like a senile

cough.

They hear me laugh, cackle,

'The old prophetess,

she has worn away her mind at last

with all that prayer and fasting.'

But I see blazing in the wraps

at the pap of His mother

the kingly one,

the one the stars are singing for,

drooling, wide-eyed, pink-fingered

perfection.

Children of today are solemn things;

I am happier than they.


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