A meditation on two Marys
in this way
glass grows heavy
with wine—
a plundered bride price
breaks over
his head in opalescent
shards—
she ran to him, but could not touch him
for she’d already returned
breathless
with word—
and the fruit of her
heart’s ponderings
distills
in slow years when
he runs up temple steps, barefoot,
bee-stung and becoming—
poured out again
grown
in the bowl of her eye.