by Bayley Brook Christensen
The open sky
triumphant over the strip of empty brush, a familiar blackness
but revealed in full on a night like this, with no prior commitments
and no city lights.
A vulnerable mother sky
her arms outstretched
as if to gather the eyes of all
below
and treat them to God’s creations.
The forgiving ground,
Warm and rough
like my fathers hands,
spread beneath me
and all of us.
The desert floor quietly slept
beneath its stars
ungroomed, and often unnoticed.
And its unevenness,
its emptiness,
its solidarity
felt like one of God’s creations
that had not quite been perfected
but in fact,
became perfect
for that
very reason.
