THE CHILD like
mustard-seed
Rolls
out of the husk of death
Into the woman’s fertile,
fathomless lap.
Look, it has taken root!
See how it
flourisheth.
See how it rises with magical, rosy
sap!
As for our faith, it was
there
When we did
not know, did not care;
It fell from our husk like a
little, hasty seed.
Sing, it is all we need.
Sing, for the little
weed
Will flourish its branches in heaven when
we
slumber
beneath.