REFLECTED IN BRASS
Mortar and pestle made of brass,
these and two solid candlesticks
were heavy fortune, her penance
for being peasant born and mixed
by impure stars to common metal
in a foreign land. But the level
to which she raised her hands in prayer
each Sabbath eve was holy: lips,
eyes, heart purified by the tares
that softly burned, the week eclipsed
of wrongs she placed upon her head
in blameless white, reflecting there
the migrant image of a light
that moved a wilderness of tents,
made rivers part and mountains cry
the voice of God. All this she meant
by keeping Sabbath in her home
and polishing the brass like gold.