I slow to a crawl among small things,
pausing between steps across the sun-slivered meadow
checking for lupine, protecting lady’s slippers.
I coo when the ladybug crosses my finger
and sing her a lullaby as soft as the wood dove’s.
I am made of statue as I inch toward the bird nest
hidden nearby in the Cork Pine branches,
straining to glimpse the hatchlings I hear.
And this I think must be You among us,
Consuming Fire restrained to a flicker,
Voice that fathered and flung constellations
flattened and swaddled into a whisper.
Even Your tenderest sigh is a gale
force wind among Lilliputians with arrows
frantically nocking and drawing and firing
into a gentleness they cannot see.