Suppose I scooped the whole sky in my hand, I couldnâ€™t hold it. Yet hearing a goldfinch, I feel, well, yes, that tiny song might clench the whole primordial rumpus of the wind.
I wonder if she felt the fearful flame fly into her womb? What did she hear? Or maybe when God enters time, heâ€™s quiet. Is the child in the manger meek so He, who fills all place, wonâ€™t scare us? After my motherâ€™s death, I stood in darkness, bereft and tiny on an ocean pier, a spent coin. Night opened its purse and flung me up, expanding toward the stars.