Dust Motes

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I saw you all honey-haired in the golden light

of the cattle stall,

like motes of lit dust in the world—

little, but alive with the breath of God

Himself

and watching the cow heave and steam

and give her milk

between your fingers,

as your own mama had given hers to you,

and as Mary nursed her Son

Himself

in the first golden light

of the cattle stall.

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