Look at them:
pitiful the weakness
of their little arms and legs,
those minds that scatter
and waver and blow.
So much like
the flowers they walk among,
stem and leaf,
their shadows flickering
swift across the ground.
It’s news they need–
those fragile ones caught in there,
and I–if this can be called an I,
so high around them,
so fresh from the wide clear spaces–
here in my breathless voice
I sing that very news:
In you is born!
And Gloria!  And Peace!
All yours!  It’s all in you!

Their plodding feet,
pain around the heart,
flesh that could melt
at one touch of my fiery wing.



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