To Him who presses curiosities four-to-a-row across the dimpled backs of infant hands; Glory be.
To Him who has made the dust of the hay barn settle in drowsy glory through a slant line of sun; Who has birthed three naked, new mice, just pink, bare thumbs, sucking out blind thirst in a mother’s tossings and tendings of the grasses of the earth; Glory be.
Who has swelled the heavy teats of the cow? Who has made them drip milk in drops, sweet, white puffs and sighs on the dry brown barn floor? Who has wetted her brown, round, empathetic eyes? Who has given her a tail to smack against her meat? Glory be.
To Him who has made the cool March wind snap the curtains to applause;
Who hovers (might He even cluck or coo?), wing thrown round about His beloved, heady as the hot underside of a hen;
Who opens up the earth like a lap, belly out, leaned back, arms thrown wide, feet planted in a father’s welcome,