The Tiny Darkness
While waiting for the tiny darkness to slip into my hand,
to cuddle there like the tiniest black kitten;
a lame gosling, yet-blind rabbit babe, young pup-
On the concrete steps there once was
a feral baby that toddled down the sidewalk
and slept for an hour in the cradle of my palm
before moving on.
In this quiet miracle I prayed the entire time.
The tiny darkness is like that:
It comes on velvet feet no bigger than my thumbnail
to slumber among my fingers, soft and fragile.
Its tail weaves through my knuckles, its suckling teeth,
more gum than bone, knead the air by my skin,
smacking in memory of its distant home.
Yes, the tiny darkness is like that:
It comes when it wants to,
loving blindly like the mystery of God,
and allows the strange gift of touching the infant wild;
the only time there is no danger from it except that of loving too much-
Sometimes I wait all afternoon,
for God or demons or anything,
looking at summer storms rolling in,
listening in the stillness before thunder
for baby footsteps to come toddling down the walk.
I pray.
(He does not come.)
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