Strange approach that anyone would
think Bethjeshimoth a haven
or Bozrah, north of the Arnon;
this land that sought sanctuary
from the contemptuous nation
only to find it in the lap
of an incestuous drunk.
And now she, a most uncommon
woman, steps across the river
back toward a distant modesty.
She gains for herself a mother
for the other turned granular,
pillarlike; thus, she arches
over generations to touch
more closely the father of faith
and find her way into his tents.
Past Pisgah and Nebo, over—
past the currents of death for the
ascent to the fields of Boaz.
There, not known to her, he rules
his realm, where all the rushes of
grain overflow—the gleanings hers;
his angels hover near that not
a thread of her hem be disturbed.
In Moab stone Chemosh breaks; she
beholds the clutter at her feet,
while Boaz strokes her dark cheek and
her humble eyes lift to meet his.
She falls to his embrace but more
to the coming grace of her son,
her Lord. She loves him and knows this
is all she ever wanted.
7/8/95