I am looking at the face of love. She is regal and ragged, weary and wondrous, disheveled and divine. She is solace. She is power. There are stories in her feet, endless fables of grandeur and lowliness, of hard travel and welcome rest, of easy tears and of difficult graces. There is glory in her eyes. I receive this glory on my knees, as sacrament and strength. I am regarding my queen in her seasoned splendour, in her careworn majesty. Her hair is lustrous with the silver of the millionary stars. Her face is etched with wisdom's arduous victories. Her bruised and passionate heart has known anguish and exaltation. Vassal and votary, I yield to her gracious will, and she blesses my docility, embraces my tenderness.

+ + +

In her silence,

there is radiance

and religion.

In her song,

there is mercy

and miracle.