Robert has hands rough and worn from work.
He turns the pages of the engine book gently, reverently.
Robert is a mountain in a snow storm.
“Why that no good rascal!” He says to the TV,
But then his eyes slide shut and drifts off.
God’s hands must be so vast and limber.
He plucks certain stars to fall and forms tiny newborn lives.
God is the universe and the single cell.
“I made you from the dust of stars; I breathe through you.”
He reaches out to take my hand, but I am busy watching the glowing path of that falling star.