To Him

He may be filled with Light with birds with maytimes.

ultra violets, He may be tender as- sudden showers

hinting at snows before they fall and

both at the same instant. who knows.

we know about His lightnings

from the Films.

and from the redundant pulpits

where out of love, they become:

more and more inarticulate...

what of His summers?

the colours of His orchards?

His tangles of blackberry vines

(they may like pies He sighed, and

cobblers: "Let there be berries then" or

creamy valentines from the saints-

the smiling of dogs);

His elephant rememberings, lumbering,

of the Day His dinosaurs failed

to get off the school bus.

charcoal sketches of first-in-flights.

of Time...of coal turned into diamonds-

sand under irritating circumstance,

to pearl

we dream we know

or else, we Deny.

where else could wondering

come from? who among us dreamed

up the brink of day-

all the flowers! rainbows swirled in oil.

oh here on earth where we are bound to stay

until we are not-

where it is not permitted to see face to Face

we make do with certain artists, short of Grace.

but tell me, you who are so certain that you know Him

or that - you cannot-

what Michaelangelo could carve

from any quarry here

the rose veined marble

of His Heart?

the weeping of His auroras...

whenever we imagine He is far away...

or that He never was...

mary angela douglas 8 november 2014