the world walks past smelling of old spice and lemons and lavender, and the pines and spruce bow graceful to this audience of rainbow skin
we’re hiking banff, with its canyons and falling water, and God is here in the crevice of creation
hikers stare at the baby in bjorn, the baby only three weeks old and they ask if he’s real and tell me he’s handsome and i feel like the luckiest woman in the world
even with the sleep rings circling eyes i see the way the miracle makes the man, the way mothers and fathers and children all breathe Christ real, the way he transfigures in the blood of the womb
and we’re spending this week telling our children how special they are, how the polar bears danced on the day they were born, how the geese called their names and the moon peeked into their crib and smiled (as the storybook goes)
and we’re hugging lots, and watching them more, the way their cheeks curve and their eyelashes curl and their lips smile bow-shaped like their mother’s
and all i can hope is they remember this week of love, of wonder, of playgrounds and caves and hikes and grandpa reading stories and even as the world tries to wreck them, they’ll hear the song of the geese flying high and believe
they are special
(away on holidays this week; will be so glad to return to your blogs next week… in the meantime, please link up your imperfect prose below, if you wish)
1. link up a post (old or new) that you feel is ‘broken’ or ‘imperfect’ or somehow redemptive
2. put the ‘imperfect prose’ button at the bottom of your post, so others can find their way back here (see button code in right-hand column of my blog)
3. read other’s prose, and encourage them!