She Who is Me at Ancient Church

by Fr. Joseph Huneycutt

I knew she’d be waiting,
sitting Indian style with a smile.
Waiting
Just for me.

I’d climb over her knees,
give her the book and
She’d read
Just for me.

One day I went and
She was not there.
I looked
all around.

High and low
East and West
and could not
Find her.

What was I to do?
Who?
Who would read
To me?

It had gone on so long, all these many days.
I would come with words in hand, and
She would read
Just to me.

I cupped my hands beside my mouth and
was about to call her name.
What?
What is her name?

I looked at my hands.
They were
empty.
I’d brought no book.

It was then I realized:
The words were mine –
Which I delighted in hearing her
Read.

She is the words that I pen
and hold, love and
Carry
And birth.

She gives them voice
With heart and tongue –
And I listen with ears and
Heart, the same.

And where I am able to bring, she is
able to read,
always there to read
Just to me.

She who is
Me.
My muse,
with gratitude.

Ancient Church