February 4th

The slow world never caught me.
I held every sorrow at bay for a week,
the villagers and rice, the saddest
astronaut, the after thought

of Agent Orange left on the returned.
I held Mercy on my lap, child one,
child two, and by the third child I came out
and named her Hope, called it by name.

The veil of ash and hatred parts
when your water breaks, labors till
a head, a head, holy kingdom
of tectonic plates and celestial wiring.

Minute universe cutting swaths of breath
through the world, all the women breathing
and the teary eyed men. The centuries
line up, Moses, Jesus, Mohammed, Buddha,

and our lives make replications of the holy,
knock-offs but the same perfume of God.
The slow Universe breathes relief, asks Peace
of us. So simple. How can we refuse?