Sometimes it’s not the thunderclap,
but the raindrop’s tap
that steals my heart.
To know that you are God enough to pay attention to the smallest detail:
The shiver of an aspen leaf,
the remembered smell of my grandmother’s perfume
the burst of a blueberry upon my tongue
the whispered beauty on a wrinkled face
my daughter’s sigh as she sleeps in my arms
These seal my soul in you.
Let me be the cricket,
singing praise upon your hearth.