May you drink the cup of hope,
feel your pulse … not to speak of God’s beat
hear the words that will be silent
until you stand up to speak them yourself.
May all your women tell you
to write on and preach on and just go on …
and whoever for you is the “her,” in oth-“her,”
may you see her or love her or leave her alone.
May you treasure your days with mothers
and other precious people,
be handed the corkscrew for Cana
at just the right time,
dry your tears from the Last Supper buffet,
and turn your face to
the splinter of Easter dawn.
that you are the beloved of God,
and understand that where there is poetry
there is God,
and where there is God there is love.