The following poem was occasioned by the thought that life has a sacramental dimension. By this, I mean that from any number of ordinary things and mundane occurrences, the Divine Mystery may pour forth into our awareness.
Mine is not a new idea, the novelty of which would rightfully render it suspect. It was once observed by Hopkins when he proclaimed ecstatically, “The world is charged with the grandeur of God.” More recently, in our time, Anthony Doerr’s enchanting novel, All the Light We Cannot See, has a character responding to the cascade of mystery that spills upon the world by musing that, “[t]he universe is full of fuel.”
Upon reflection one might be justified
in charging God with a sort of mischievousness,
of playing the trickster.
For he has given,
to we mortals,
a perforated world,
where all attempts to
seal it off are
For from any point-
be it the hopping robin on a branch;
a breeze skipping upon the tops of bluebonnets;
the play of a shadow on a wall;
the suddenness of a forgotten memory;
a flat tire or face in a crowd-
at any point
His presence may enter
and saturate our unguarded moments.