Between the rain this morning and the temple, my stale winter mind caught a whiff of the slow, distant advent of spring. The brief thaw brought forth these brief thoughts:
were long ago flungso far into the dark recesses
of the multiverse
that it will likely take
twelve legions of angels
their whole seraphic lifetimes
to locate them.
Not that the winged onesmind much.
For they have each other,
and the boy angels are thinking
about the eyes and smiles of all those
girl angels who will be joining them,
the ones who packed a picnic
of sandwiches—eternal light spread heavy
between thick slices of
the bread of praise.
And the prospect of adventuring
into the bright, mysterious heart of nowhere—
lifting rocks and uncovering things the eternal mind
may have long forgotten—
seems just the thing to prove
their undying love.
Meanwhile Godstands barefoot and laughing,
fully cognizant that the ground
on which He stands is holy
precisely because of His transfiguring presence.
But He can’t help wriggling
His toes deep into the earth—
a sigh on His lips and a
song in His eyes—
because this particular patch of grass,
halfway between the mailbox
and the front door,
seems especially full of glory this morning.
I can’t help thinking this fine Thursday
that the God of Rilke has come to me—
this infant in my arms
with her laughing mouth open
to eat my nose.
Again God in the least of these
has done it unto me.