Out of the morning air
dart with Love's intention to the heart
shifting from tone to tone, from dear to dare.
You show me how
the supple syntax of God's love for man
is like this bright phrase
of sanderlings flitting low over the sea
coming now to invade the waiting
shore of my need
with rhymes of wings—with sudden swoop and dive,
with soar and belly-up, loop-over, glide:
five birds in flawless formation
moving as one
wing to wing, wave after pluming wave. . . .
I cannot die.
Here birds are the shadows of words that live
in my hearing, words of Life
flaring through me now.
The sanderlings are gone
but your words through Christ remain
in motion to brush my thought with all their sudden
me an eager candidate for surprise.
Man is Mind's idea, in whom
order and spontaneity cohere
delightedly. For God, as Principle, times
life's flight patterns unforeseeably
true right where
Love's precious likeness is.
Good friend, how I thank you!
I'm seeing why
my living is knowing—knowing the source of my being
through Christ, through all
ideas that fly. . . .