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Multiplication
by Kristin Roedell

The black birds are falling
like ashes, like leaves,
in fragmented sky;
together in a sum
of intention,

but others
singly,
with the wind
which has its
own path.

I am always quiet
when the gulls come
down in flocks for the
fishing boats
pulling in their nets,

quiet
when the autumn geese
rise in trills from the lake
in an early snowfall.

It will happen,
these moments
so still, that
perhaps God does know
when each hair
on my child's head
moves.

I think of the grass waving
under the lake;
if He has numbered every
bending blade and
all her winding
russet strands

surely He can cause
one wing to lift slightly.
It is enough to turn a flock,
enough to pull beauty
towards
multiplication.

 


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