All that thou sayest unto me I will do.
                                                 Ruth 3:5

I

The story’s strange. For once, God wasn’t talking,
Busy with some sacrifice or slaughter
Somewhere else. No plague, cloud, gushing water,
Dream, omen, whirlwind. Just two women, walking
The dusty road from Moab to Judea,
One, the younger, having told the other
(Not her own, but her dead husband’s mother)
That she would never leave her. But they flee a
Famine for what, at first, seems something worse:
To come as widows to a crowded city,
To men’s appraising stares, and women’s pity.
Ruth, the pagan, heard Naomi curse,
Cringed and scanned the sky. No fire or stone
Came crashing downward. They were on their own.
 

II

Back home (but no, not home) she faced the wall.
“I went out full; empty has God returned me,
She cried, “And all my piety has earned me
Nothing from Him except the bitter gall
Of shame and grief. He hates me now.” Her voice
Quavered and broke. “My name is not Naomi.
You saw them, Ruth. They didn’t even know me.
Now leave me be.” Ruth did. She had no choice,

Since they were hungry. It was harvest time,
And so she went to glean the fallen wheat
The mowers moving through the fields would miss.
All day ripe kernels rang—plunk, tock, and chime.
Old Boaz watched her stoop in evening heat
To winnow them. “Whose maid,” he asked, “is this?”
 

III

Our hero: stout, gray-bearded, bald. A farmer,
Known for his practicality and thrift.
A bushelful of barley was his gift,
And the order to his servants not to harm her.
Ruth brought the bundle home as he commanded,
Stood at Naomi’s bed and spilled the grain
Onto the faded sheets like so much rain,
Laughing, “He wouldn’t send me empty-handed!”

Soon afterward, a rustling in the room
One night awakened her. Ruth heard her name.
A lantern spluttered. From behind the flame
An urgent voice enjoined her: “Quick! Get dressed.
No, this one, dear. You want to look your best.
Wear your hair loose. And put on some perfume.”
 

IV

No angel stood there, only her mother-in-law,
Eyeing the bag of roasted grain and scheming,
Foretelling how she’d find him—sprawled and dreaming
Beside the barley sheaves, on bales of straw.
Like wings, she said, his cloak would cover them.
The plan risked everything. But as before—
While aisles of rustling wheatstalks whispered Whore—
Ruth walked alone through shuttered Bethlehem.

She stood above him. Started turning. Stayed.
The dozing reapers sighed but did not hear.
Watched by the neutral moon, she watched him stir,
Heard his stuttering snores, and was afraid.
A moment later, God did not appear,
And Boaz wakened to the scent of myrrh.
 

V

Naomi, meanwhile, follows to the farm’s
Long shadows, and with Ruth she hears him laugh.
He lifts the jug again. The windblown chaff
Smokes in the fire, sticking to sweaty arms.
Their bellies full, they drop the blackened ears
And fragrant husks. The torches all burn down.
Now Ruth comes forward, ghostlike in her gown,
And then the bright moon dims and disappears.

What if it failed? The town would turn, reviling
The two of them, its massive gates clang fast.
Then who would take them in? Now she’s been gone
Three hours. Now four. Naomi slept at last,
Lost in the cornfields, calling her. At dawn
She woke, and Ruth was in the doorway smiling.
 

VI

Imagine his surprise, turning to see a
Shivering woman there, her hair a cloud
Of musk that dizzied him. Next day, as proud
As though the whole thing were his own idea,
He married her. Lust? Kindness? Who can tell?
To question too minutely the behavior
Of such a human and unlikely savior
Seems churlish. It’s enough all ended well:

In nine months more, Naomi was to dandle
Fat Obed on her lap—the squalling, messy
Grandson who would grow up to father Jesse.
Good rabbis, later on, quailed at the scandal:
King David’s great-grandma was not a Jew.
So strange, the story almost must be true.