She opens the basket

A woven band for her daughter

Beaded, headworn

A thing made from tradition

 

Silently she stands and dresses her only

Her shoulders

Her feet

She’s proud

 

Clothing laced with multihued weaving

Ornaments cared for

Woven from the bread of the lamb

 

She holds out a single idol

A secret prayer, whispered on the cusp of the wind

An ask for heroinism, for sacrifice

 

But a heroine’s heart

Tempered still and yet to come