Callings
By Claire Keene
Nets, nerves,
the silver web of streams in the moonlight
moving seaward,
in roots and branches,
journeys.
Prophecies in the pink hands of babies,
blue histories in diaphanous aged flesh.
All movement is of life
to life.
Like hands stretched out,
arms wrapping around,
prayers melding like the smoke from many candles.
We are so woven
that the going forth and the coming home
are one.