God never loses one,
Not a single soul.
He’s good at that, filling any crack they might slip through.
These little ones , holy in their innocence,
Play marbles and cat’s cradle
Among the clouds,
Waiting for families to arrive
To hug and cherish
As they could not before.
He watches from His throne,
Only because it is the best seat in the house,
The tossled blondes and Afros, auburn curls,
The bright red plaits and sleek black tresses.
Small ones, hardly babies really.
They are all His creatures.
Some misformed, yet
His chuckles, taught by Saint Nick,
Have a Gregorian chantiness about them
When he hears, in languages from across the globe
The rote of a dog-eared prayer.
“Who made you?”
”God, of course, who else could?”
Close to sassy, with a confidence that erases
All but the brightness of their intellects,
These, His children, play out their lives
In heaven’s nursery.