Why are you kneeling?                                        Why have we both knelt?

Only in this way are we alike
            in stature and statuary.
                                                                                       We say drop or fall

when our knees touch
              the ground, like a stone from your palm,

but really we mean pulled
              a common center
                            an endless patch of dirt pocked by heels.

This place is smaller than the hairs on a nettle;
              each lonely in their sting and solitude.
                            Until now.
                                                                                       Believe me

when I tell you I’ve dreamt of this fabric
              a simple swatch of cloth held over a patch of violet flowers,
                            their papery bracts.

I think I understand now the worn path, the wine-dark
              of the sage flowers
                            that can’t help but grow.

Why do I look to their faces after seeing yours?

The oblong leaves;
              these split veins and inflorescent whorls.

                                                                                       What I mean to say is
                                                                                                     you’re both beautiful;

what I mean to say is sometimes
              we see a menorah in something as simple as sage.