If God Wills It

It was my great aunt who spoke on many evenings,
when the sun had finished its arguments with the day,
and shadows gathered us children at her feet.

She told of hidden truths wrapped in simple tales–
of a little bird, sweet in her tweeting,
bright-feathered and quick with life,
who made her home beneath a roof of clay,

with two tiny lives, her quiet bundle of joy.

Below, the man spoke loudly of the morrow:
I will mend this roof, he said,
I will tear it down and raise it anew.

And the bird, hearing death in the language of men,
flew in trembling circles to the ear of God.
He will do it, she cried,
he will come with the hands of ruin–
my children cannot yet meet the sky.

And God, patient as time itself,
asked only,
What exactly did this man say?

And when the little bird had told Him,
He answered gently,
Rest. Tomorrow will not obey him.

And so it was.

Again and again,
the man built his future with his tongue,
and the little beauty on a wing
lived in fear for her young.
But again and again,
tomorrow refused to remember his words.

Until one day–

The man spoke a different tongue.
Not with the arrogance of breath,
but with the humility of dust.

If God wills it, he said,
I will mend this roof tomorrow.

And the bird, once more undone with fear,
flew upward in alarm.

But this time,
God did not still her trembling.

Go, He said,
and teach your children the language of wings.

For now, he has invoked My name,
and even I must honour what is declared in it.