to the gorgeous unchanging tide that He is
both coming and going, to the flow and ebb
that curls at the foot of the Rock that He is
though all my candles go out at the same time in the storms:
to His endless returning.
striking the match and there is my kitchen still
painted yellow, the stove that almost works,
the little cups with His roses painted on them
a little faded and I am too
but I praise still the gorgeous unchanging pouring
over the brink of sadness; the small brooks finding their way
in forgotten landscapes under the parking decks.
the kingdoms of his strawberries ah the starlight ways
I no longer see being cast in the city lights aside
from their configurings but in my heart unwinds
through Him His star maps anyway and to Him I will sing
to the last bells' clanging it is Christmas day; or it is
a knell of death and yet the gorgeous unchanging
carries me away no matter what they say or unsay.
mary angela douglas 2 december 2014
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