I would not think alone to leave

this fertile valley. I know the harvest

here, know the seasons. I love

the springing blossoms and my goats and chicks.

But I place my hand, with my husband’s

in Thine, and together we board.

By the light of Thy finger’s touch I serve

from food prepared before this journey

as we toss below, above the waves.

At night I hear Thy beasts

singing against the bow,

yet I am unsoothed by their hymns.

In stone’s light I kneel with my loves,

these few treasures come with me

toward the land my countrymen declare

does not, cannot exist. And yet,

we are driven,

wind tossed, over the horizon, beyond,

and there, pushed by furious storm—

There is our promise! There, our spring!

From my earthen jar I take

next year’s harvest, confident

I too will blossom

where planted by God’s hand.

Detail from Certain Women by Walter Rane, courtesy Museum of Church History and Art