God at his lonely outpost tracks the stars
answering random calls
responding with
the aurora borealis
keeps up with things
waiting in the wings
outside of Time
watching the cherubic angels climb
gold Jacob's ladder;
what if the paint splatters
because He is dreaming other things
like Daedalus, of wings
while painting the clouds again
peach or is it pearl, weeping for the world
it is no sin to think of Him this way
entranced with the Milky Way
after all, He designed it;
hearing each thing that we say
sensitive to a fault
and trying so earnestly
not to be in the way.
hoping we'll understand one day
all His scattered noisy children
who made the earth
where the tracks run now
and every brindled cow
and each least motion of the seas
but more than these, more than these
I hear Him say through the conch shell wind
through the icy turning of the leaves
I have loved relentlessly
the broken kingdom of man.
mary angela douglas 17 february 2022;19 march 2023
No comments:
Post a Comment