You read a story once about a miserly king
high in his tower, counting his gold,
grudgingly generous only to his most noble courtiers—
someone said it was about God.
But they made that up. It’s not true.
Here’s what I’ve seen:
the Grandmother of the Realm,
so happy for her little ones,
she spoils them rotten.
The mother who will die to shield her children.
The father who moves into the single-wide out back
so you can have the house.
The Lover of Heaven
who is so smitten by you
he gives everything to you, everything,
spends it all for one evening with you,
so in love he gives his own self away
every morning and every night.
There is nothing left over, nothing held back. Nothing.
Whenever the Beloved finds a new treasure—
a sunset or forgiveness or the blossoming of the pear,
or the best seat at the table—
they can’t wait to put a bow on it and offer it to you.
Do not be afraid, little flock,
for it is your Mother-Father’s good pleasure
to give you the Realm.