By Carol Hopkins
Awake at 5 in the morning, the angels come and say,
“Look at the liquid light in this dark room.”
I stare into molecules dancing and rejoicing in the eternally unfolding
Love of God.
There is no difference between
chair, book, aging body, slipper with a tear in its sole,
and the stained glass art my son made as a little boy.
None of this can ever be anything other than what it is,
How can I explain this to the child in us who wants Santa
to bring the latest game,
unaware that we are eternally resting motionless in the Mother’s lap?
Still, regularly I bend my knee and ask for Grace.
It’s the way of this world.