The weird thing is, I’ve never liked U2. From the few short clips I’d seen, Bono seemed arrogant and intentionally obtuse. Pictures of U2 concerts ... Read More
To Him who presses curiosities four-to-a-row
across the dimpled backs of infant hands;
To Him who has made the dust of the hay barn
settle in drowsy glory through a slant line of sun;
Who has birthed three naked, new mice,
just pink, bare thumbs, sucking out blind thirst
in a mother’s tossings and tendings of the grasses of the earth;
Who has swelled the heavy teats of the cow?
Who has made them drip milk in drops,
sweet, white puffs and sighs on the dry brown barn floor?
Who has wetted her brown, round, empathetic eyes?
Who has given her a tail to smack against her meat?
To Him who has made the cool March wind
snap the curtains to applause;
Who hovers (might He even cluck or coo?),
wing thrown round about His beloved,
heady as the hot underside of a hen;
Who opens up the earth like a lap,
belly out, leaned back, arms thrown wide,
feet planted in a father’s welcome,
Rebecca Reynolds teaches Classical Rhetoric and Philosophy of Faith in eastern Tennessee, and is a contributor to the Story Warren website. She’s the author and illustrator of the pediatric series From the Medical Files of Dr. Phineas C. Bones and collaborated with Ron Block as the lyricist for his critcally-acclaimed album, Walking Song. She lives in Kingsport, Tennessee, with her husband and three children.