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bride made ready
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“Gather up the fragments,
that nothing be lost”—
so even crumbs
become a silo of abundance,
stored against famine,
a whisper of Joseph’s barns.
The night keeps count
of every restless turning,
each tear stoppered
in an unseen flask,
a vintage sorrow
kept for the day of pouring.
The soil remembers
every hand that tills it,
every seed pressed down
into the dark—
and the mountain waits,
where a feast is laid,
and death itself
is swallowed whole.
Garments gleam:
robes of salvation,
linen bright with testimony,
woven from mercy,
from oil kept burning
through the long delay.
Yet at the edge,
a figure stands unrobed,
silent,
as if waiting to be clothed
by a covenant not yet claimed,
or by compassion
that still lingers at the door.
And in the end,
all things are braided—
loss and gain,
silence and song—
woven toward a good
we glimpse only in part,
yet trust as whole,
where the Bridegroom waits,
and the Bride makes herself ready.
.
