We are hung, lowered into life by a thin thread,
ribbon of the umbilical cord
wrapped about our neck, rope that the sun

swung upon, unwound from the heavens,
dropped down from the holy house.
The knotted cord swings past a sickle moon

and stars carved on the walls of creation
like a hatchmark of Xs
blink at this body, unwinding on its string.

Head swung to one side, we turn on the rope
of the soul, dangling in umber light
among dust motes and clay.

Beside us in the bluster of winds
small figures whirr on what might be wings
or flames that seem to be turning.

A woman carries the consecrated host
her hands cupped upward
like a chalice, and a great presence

holds up one hand, palm turned outward
fingers risen, in the tender sign of healing,
still point at the heart of the turning.

© Jan Lee Ande
All rights reserved