The Infant’s Faith


When I was a child my mother told me
that clouds were angels sailing in the sky.
Like Nordic ships upon a sapphire sea
they voyaged into the unknown, endlessly.

It followed then that God was sunlight, freed
in its blinding beauty, or else distilled
in fleecewarm, soldery scoops of creamy cloud,
striking the city’s minarets with gold.

I believe in believing. I believe
in that sky so truly endless, where no wind
obscures a heaven that’s no more given to deceive
than it is less real for having been imagined.