A divine child was born just up the road.
A neighbor spent the good part of a morning
pondering what all of the signs meant. Unseen
stars in the sky. The sun rising a few minutes
earlier than the day before. Temperature
above normal. And a crow sitting in a nearby
branch overlooking the front door as if
keeping some sort of watch like a preacher
from a pulpit waiting to share some
good news about what this all may mean.
What gospel will you preach?
The good news of common ancestry or
the fault line of difference?
The beauty of the sunlight through the trees or
of the setting sun sending light through countless
limbs waiting for spring's leaves?
And where does this "or" come from
and how does it insert itself into
the most simplest of questions?
People move from one building to the next
avoiding the embarrassment of discipline.
Sharing lists with one another along the way
we are amazed at what can and should be done.
Certain combinations of humans continue
to take care of their own as if a collective
birth mother had never died. The pleasing
shape of conceits generated by the particular
grows with each new encounter knowing that
outside where the gospel is preached the pieces
still try to bring themselves together.