It’s true that through these months we have not known
The way. Nor can we tell how we have come
To still be here, together, closer grown.
A miracle, I think – the sacred sum
Of prophecy and hope, to which we’ve clung.
So now, once more, before the throne
Of God, I pray for grace with worry’s tongue,
For some small sign to know we’re not alone.
I pray and lift my eyes to search the sky.
I pause upon a solitary cloud:
It blossoms to a king before my eye –
High heaven’s king! Then swirling like a shroud
It blooms again as you: at peace, at rest,
Soft-curved as on a bed, with a lifting breast.
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