I lie in her hands,
folded, waiting,
without purpose until He comes.

I am only linen,
but her stillness gives me breath.
I learn patience from her silence,
and readiness from her prayer.

If He should turn toward me,
I will open like water
to receive the press of His face.

Not to keep it—
only to bear it a moment,
to cool it,
to carry His sorrow softly,
as breeze carries fragrance.

I am nothing but waiting,
but waiting is enough.