I danced with Miriam
in the dark,
while the sea curled,
hungry and wild,
around our bare feet.
We danced
in jubilation
and filled with glory.
And I drank from her well.
The water was sweet,
tasting of summer,
and it cooled my fevered skin
as I walked the Wilderness
and learned to hear
the stillness of God.
And we danced
with timbrel and lyre,
voices raised in exultation,
hands clapping out a rhythm,
hungry and wild,
and the music curled
around our swelling hearts.
Now I grieve at her well,
dry,
and it echoes –
not with the Sea,
but with her silence,
and my sorrow.
And my feet do not dance.
And the timbrels do not sing.
And oh!
I thirst for sweet water
and the stillness of God.
