Does God Sleep
At first light, I stood,
gazing out the window.
I thought not of the dawn,
but of God who watches it rise.
The morning light is like
the waking fingers of God
touching the still sleeping land.
Our world stays primed to betray
the innocent, destroy the small
or the soft and the beautiful.
Oshie and Carlos, docile alpacas
claimed as "Part of the family,"
are no more.
Gentle beauties, savagely slain;
the only clue, one ghastly paw print
in the snow. Did God sleep as tragedy
stretched under tiny diamond stars
in the frozen dark of night?
"They were our buddies,"
sobbed the stricken ranchers.
Grief-gouged wounds heal slowly,
leave shadows reaching into eternity.
Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014
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