who else could write in purple ink on clouds of gold
when we were only barely four or five years old
or send our shadows sideways in the past
when we were playing tag on dew drenched grass.
or singing carols in a stained glass light
or hearing angel lullabies so faintly
late at night.
without theology, or saying our prayers right.
we did our best to bless the trees and sky
and pray for all who loved us by and by
we drifted in our dreams. and watched the rain
pour silver into streams and down the sleep filled lanes
and felt the kingdom radiant of His shadow ease
small childhood pains
from our cribs; the creche and manger comfort
that was His
when gazing out the window at the stars
and feeling sure he couldn't be that far
we knew Him early; still his moonlit wayward
children oh we are.
mary angela douglas 27 may 2020;rev. 1 june 2020
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