From the tribe of Asher
The necessary second witness. Pointing finger of a lost tribe
Finding its place again. Behold the blessed castaway.
Even her age meant a completion and a return.
How can we trust anything when every thing
Means something? Is every father the face of god
Until the glimpse of the infant visage, God the beginning?
Seven dozen years waiting against the stone of the dead.
Father stone, husband stone. Waiting as the days dry up
To make the math work wonders. What else did she see
In the intervening hours but a name in another tongue
the same backwards as forwards? I would believe you
Against all the world believes. I cast a pebble at the well
And the hand that caught it before it fell