To a bearded old man with a staff I would kneel,
before knowledge with its meaner mirrors
forced me to my feet in hopes the sky would reveal
answers to the fatter questions of leaner years.
Soon enough I ceased to give thanks, say grace,
the first god lost in that celestial tracery.
Just what did I find there? Blank verses on blank space
in which symmetry cancelled symmetry,
blanched white in the fearful looking-glass of my eye.
“Father, who are the angels? Where do they reside?
When were they made? By what means do they fly?”
Such details we as children demand from our guide,
afraid to discover they’re not of His knowing.
But if we know He knows where He’s going,
we’re more than content to go along for the ride.
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