Sleeping At The Father's Feet

There are the green valleys, of the dream, tree covered hillsides of country's soft with sun...shadowless encampments of each flowers space, placed in the meadows...perfectly. One all seeing eye, in every sleeper sees, and is amazed, for days or years...or centuries of fair impartiality's.

Who can know, enchanted to such objectivity, such timeless life as he? We visitors don't know, nor guess, but gaze away; as if our lives were God's...in his eternity, and yet, in dream we jest; we prank and play and love...believing we are there, that thus, attention is not all the same; for there is that, that passes not in judgement...for it can't; and then...there's this that can.

So, are we then, participant or chained, a slave to art, in stone; for seeing in the round...a master piece, not all, but that presented us; by he who made the thing, or are we but a fool; stark raving blessed, to be at all; to run the breadth of God's own house...as if we were his own errant children? He watches us, another kind of sight, beyond content, I feel, to be at every point...a lord and father, and he loves us all...I think.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: detail of marble feet, by French Carpeaux (a young boy sleeps at the fathers feet)