I began to die.
All my beauty and wealth
could not bring life.
Twelve years,
doctors
charlatans
recriminations and accusations
unclean.
I heard about a man
they said a mere look was life.
How often I watched the crowds
from my window.
A glimpse was not enough
but a touch?
Audacity!
How long since I had touched or been touched?

I preferred stoning to this miserly death.
I crept through the crowd.
now, now, while He is talking with that man,
His robe – is – so coarse….
I feel hope.

Joy was born.
Barrenness birthed
a daughter of love.
Twelve years,
laughter
first words, first steps
blooming hints of maturity
betrothal.
Who listens to the chatter of slaves?
Miracles, bread, healing…
But one remembers when joy
is cut at the roots.
One remembers when an only child
becomes a blight stricken tree.
I was a leader of my people
He had to come, didn’t He?

For all my authority, before Him
I found myself on my knees, begging
humbling myself in this motley crowd.
Why are you stopping?
My daughter could already be dead.

Who Touched Me?
I said I preferred stoning.
“I did.”
Before all this crowd I must speak my shame.
Faith? Made well? Go in peace?!
I will never leave You,
my Life.
Why do my servants push through the crowd?
No – dear God – No!
My grief in a crowd of strangers.
Sleeping you say?
Preposterous!
But now I am merely amazed.