Small fuzz-moth puttering
across the fountain pond,
who, rescued on my finger,
does wash, vibrate, flutter and, triumphant, fly away . . .
Sweeper of the cobbles with a scoop,
bowed collector of my dust and ash,
who, with toothless smile and humble stoop,
does shine angelic when greeted with the day . . .
Do you all, however mottled, strange, familiar,
reveal in innocence one died who lives elsewhere?
What concealed beneath this mask and hideous in its love,
is through these, as through bread and wine,
simple majesty, quiet grandeur, very God?