Slow Friday Dawn
The gift of slow Friday dawns.
The sun touching unstudied beauties like
“my finger isn’t alive”
the four-years-young says.
The new dewy skin graced with
a small cut on her tiny pinky.
Her desperate reality, her hand unperfect
but no, this healing hand is a Rembrandt to me.
Radiance generates through clanging dishes,
Magenta play-doh pancakes,
Crossed-paw retriever naps,
Messy piles of evergreen yarn,
Residual coffee grinds and dough crumbs.
I saw radiance through my strands of hair.
I saw it in the concentrating tongue, bit down by chicklet baby teeth.
Ides of concentration cultivating doughy imaginations.
They said Moses was radiant, too—
but a different sort.
A terrifyingly wonderful brilliance
upon an average Joe’s skin.
A veil covered him, because that level of glimmer
didn’t belong in the filthy wilderness.
The glow on my own skin—a shard of a glimpse.
One puzzle piece amongst one billion more.
Like Moses, that promised land may only be seen from a distance.
His last breath, surveying milk and honey.
A foretaste of the kingdom.
Our last breaths
like May mornings, song birds,
an opaque moon and a brilliant sun.
A joy unmatched lay far beyond
We foretaste it
a small show of radiance
by the slow Friday dawn.