Vacuum

Theotokos, God-bearer, you are full
of life like the earth: with whorls and
fronds with nuts and seeds in abundance.
The earth parts for you and your seed
is planted deep in its soil, to
nourish all.  God-bearer, your womb
was big for me also, my mother
loving and giving, washed my feet
when they were dirty, cleaned my skin
when it was stung, wiped away my tears
when they flowed freely.  God-bearer
you hold me in your arms and the
umbilical love follows me a thousand
years: unbroken in pain, unbroken
by time.  Hold her hand for me,
put your light arm about her shoulders
and breathe gently in her ear: that
I love her, and give her my thanks.
My dark place exists without her light
and my world grown small and thin.
My pale face sorrowful and my tired
heart quails to begin.  Tell her I feel as
though they all won, and me with 
empty hands, full-pained, my body
broken and unsteady feet, find the way
strange and stony, like I do not belong.
Tell her with them all gone, I am a
stranger here, blown-in by some hasty
wind that put me down and let me
stand too long.  Theotokos, tell her I let
her down and a million consecutive suns
would not take that rising regret
and cast it down - without her I am nothing:
empty daughter with no laughter.

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