who is He really, the Keeper of our days
even when He thunders at our errant ways
he cannot possibly stop himself from
leaving a rose tinge in the sky when the
storms have departed; from having the leaves
more fragrantly breathe dripping with the pooling
waters as we walk in the aftermaths and are consoled.
He must have cursed the ground with his fingers crossed
when He was so angry with Adam for the Paradise He lost
for flowering branch has never deserted us
nor the evening stars which can only be hidden
by a mere film of clouds.
Who is He at last all things considered in a golden light
who made for our sorrows such secretive flights as poetry, as music
the innermost, moss lined Word
who cannot keep Himself from making more stars
from letting the light pass through prison bars
who has made the birds to continually sing
in season or out so that even in the ruins their song is this:
He is love He is love He is love.
mary angela douglas 17 may 2021
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