Sabbath Dawn

I remember

There was a short sermon

On a small hill

In a little country

I believe the fishes were quite real

The soup was not thin

And the bread went a long way

I believe the skeptical women made the fine soup

After the wisest old woman gave a memorable blessing

And the men showed reluctant appreciation

Watching over the children

With few complaints

After the wisest old man

Reminded them of their own boyhood

And their love for mother who they couldn’t confuse

Their respect for father who they couldn’t trick

We listened to her without fear

She was one of us

We spoke to him without shaking

He did not judge us

We found words for our confusion

She did not shame us

We knew the value of our simple lives

Sitting with the elders

We sat then

With our own children

Quietly eating fish and broth and bread

Feeling equal to the hope of the children

We remembered how we had netted a few fish in the morning

We remembered pounding out a few flat loaves

We sat there

Husbands and wives

As the drummers matched heartbeats

As the smallest feet began slapping the powdery dust

As the elders

Got to their feet and in one long movement

Danced

To the fish and the soup and the bread and the goats and the wheat and the wine

All round and around the well until

They had given thanks to the sunset the sunrise the constant star and the southern stars

And then when all of this was accomplished

The elders were tired

We guided them home at Sabbath dawn