she is my am.eric.an girl

Walking from kitchen to the next room,

the voice of an angel singing softly,

I turned the corner and my heart burst

into crystalline vapor in the Christmas air

North light through the windows, opaline grey,

the flower of my heart stood, singing,

a doll in her arms, held like a sibling

and I managed not to raise hand to heart

A nursery rhyme of unknown origin, cherub smile

to melt glaciers and split stone: I did not gasp

but stood, dumbfounded, to see such grace,

fighting the lump in my throat and tremor in my lips

She holds the doll tenderly, brushes a hair from its cheek

I chew the insides of my cheeks:  Please, my girl

never forget this, never forget such care, such bliss,

someday when you found your own dynasty

She sings, my composure slips its fragile leash,

the room blurs,  I find a space she cannot see,

will not know my heart has shattered, instantly,

refired in the kiln of her innocence

Dabbing at liquid eyes, towel between clenched teeth,

I hear her say "You are so pretty, the doll I always wanted"

knees near to buckling, overwhelmed by beauty:

I resolve to live forever.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have to say, the above prose poem (is that a phrase?) is not yet the piece I wanted to write.  It is crude, unrefined, compared to that which was in my head and inspired me to write.  I want to try it again.  Writing it over might do it justice.  Then again. it might not.  This is the dilemma.  It is almost a certainty that there are no words, no matter how skilfully arranged, that could do justice to what I saw Christmas morning.  I am also glad I had no camera with me at the time; to stop and photograph that angelic countenance, in such a golden moment, seems to me to border on a minor blasphemy.  The look on her face, the softness of her voice as she sang...

If I could truly describe, dear readers, the glimpse of the divine that I was granted I think you would agree that words sometimes fall far short.  I am reminded of "High Flight",  a poem by John Gillespie Magee, Jr., the last line of which reads:

"...Put out my hand, and touched the face of God."

That poem is about a brush with the Divine in an entirely different setting, but it comes very close to what I mean.  Perhaps that is the essence of all genuinely moving experiences in life.  Words can bring us right to the edge, but in the end, we stand mute before Beauty.