The Feast of St. Stephen
Snow and rain swallowed me
and bent the tree. See where I fell
from the heights where mother died.
Huddled there, the branches bare, and I ask why.
Before I opened my eyes,
I could see your hands holding me.
Fed me on, on milk and wine, for a time.
The question is not, “How can I love?”
but, “How I am loved!”
as the thought of I Am comes,
the spinning stillness in dark and light
is far-off but here, the unending sentence
of his love, the unending of “I am, I am, I am.”
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