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.