We are seeds that don’t know where to settle. We are the nomads.
My God, we are toiling. We are dusty-footed.
To where have we been walking all this time, the earth,
the horizon receding?
Guide us as You do the birds and the spiders and the dandelion fluff
that know their homes.
We will not be the beetle that flees up and across the prayer house wall.
We will not run beneath the skirts of disgusted women.
How many us are a woman with a broom in her hand?
How many of us are watching the beetle?
If mouths feel stuffed with wool before death, we must be dying soon.
Give us water or take us into the sea.