I know what you’re thinking,
that I flew here from heaven,
flitting my way through the galaxies,
wings aglow against dark matter.
No, I merely stepped through
the veil that separates This
from That, from what the eye
most longs to see in wonder.
Light from dark,
like peering into a shaken globe
with its tiny figures standing
stiffly in the swirling snow.
What I carry, what I shall announce,
I can hardly bear, although it will
be known as good news through
all the pillaged centuries, and I —
faithful messenger direct from
the throne of God — will be hailed
as the bringer of this glorious
conspiracy of love.
And love it is, the purest strain of it,
dew-soft and glistening, virginal even,
a love so innocent you want to enfold
it against the sneers of savage minds,
the dust of indifference, the clattering
hooves of these lost crowds.
I am afraid for this child and her shy glow.
This is a cold world; the lark that sings
in the morning will be silenced before long.
What does she know of the weight of happiness,
the leaving that follows the arrival of joy?
But I have seen so much and now endlessly more
to come. I live forever but I cannot know
the welling up of ripe delight that humans know,
the desperate love of those for whom
the time to come is always now.
Barry Casey has published in Spectrum Magazine, Brevity, Mountain Views, Patheos, Faculty Focus, and The Dewdrop. His collection of essays, Wandering, Not Lost: Essays on Faith, Doubt, and Mystery, was published by Wipf and Stock in November 2019. More of his writing can be found at Danteswoods.com. He writes from Burtonsville, Maryland.
Photo by Julia Kadel on Unsplash
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