Mary
The wind blows the cloth
Against her form
And all is there, apparent,
To be whispered about
Behind her tautened back.
And that swelling?
A whole unbridled universe
To the unborn speck
So lacking in state
(In size, at least) -
Yet He is the print of the infinite God
Who made the girl
And all around her in the vast beyond.
The child (unformed
Yet infinitely knowing),
The world’s only answer,
In mortality confined
By a waist once slender
And easy encompassed
By a carpenter’s hands.