small potatoes

i normally do not like being surprised
but every now and then
a glimmer of God
flirts at my windowsill
and i cannot help but suddenly notice

perhaps it’s as when the artist knows
his last brush was one of mercy
the novelist whose final words
deliver his salvation
the actor’s boldest tears
hidden before the curtain falls
a mother, sweet and high on her newborn,
now catching the truest form of love

God teases us
in so many moments, though
–the wieldy, the unexceptional, the small–
but wholly remarkable

why we almost always miss them
i’m not sure i’ll ever know

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