Where is the Bride on Her Sabbath...

...and how spends she the days of her secret thrones?

These are days when and where she is prepared and adorned for procession,

knowing one day her hand will rest lightly

ceremonially

on the hand of her prince;

knowing one day she will be robed in a gown, brocade

shot through with thread

scarlet

sapphire

and golden.

These are days when and where she is draped and then embraced

by the hands of her bridegroom-prince

draped in supple white:

a mantle of feathers under which she will fly

but are they feathers? Or the hands of others?

Hands, reaching

believing,

hoping.

These are days when and where she sits in a midnight garden

and the glow of her gown is lilac

as is its scent

whenever the soft wind flutters it.

Here she sits by her prince whose hands are folded in repose,

whose eyes are closed.

Here she wonders what he thinks,

what he prays.

And she is quiet beside him.

These are the days when and where she hides,

(for she is not immune to the storm)

but she is protected.

With her prince she sits

under a vaulted ceiling of feathers.

And there

in the quiet,

restful,

subdued lighting

she sinks into her softest throne

--his as Eiderdown, black and silver

hers black and gold--

where they put their feet upon footstools

--his confidently on the earth,

hers hesitantly on the moon.

He lays his hand across the emptiness between and

She laces her fingers into his.

Take note,

this is the purest sabbath throne of all.