Well-loved night cradles each sun,
rocks all beings in universal sleep.
The all-pervading “I” sings of puissance and care,
soft electricity innervating cells and stars,
speaking to Itself through tree and stone.
Each dawn we rise to mundane tasks,
profane concerns which, when summed
in prolix ways amount to divinity.
The waking of foxes and mice,
of babies and crones,
the mending of shoes and of looms,
the healing brought by life’s flow
through every fixed form
to a gathering so radiant,
so intricately inter-connected,
a whole so great none can span it.
Busy as spiders, we float among the stars,
tentatively tethered to earth,
deaf, blind to the masterwork
we are apprenticed to weave.
God laughs, in love with all the sleeping children
who are Their flesh and bone.
© 2017 Susanne Donoghue