THEOTOKOS
By Brenda Morris
Think of those moments of strange harmony
when light within you kindles and the real
sun, like an answer floods your room and rounds
every common vessel — jug, jar, and basket,
the clay pot with its crimson bloom.
Think how that bloom,
soil-bound and blind, twists toward light, how we
likewise need light to flower, but being free
have to say yes in order to receive,
how yes can never be informed consent
but always something like a pregnancy —
A risky state which nurtures the unknown
and lets it grow, which knits up flesh and bone
then lets them go, to stand erect and free.
Does even God know what the end will be?
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