And if, instead, the God is love, I dream you to manifest here before me, in shy aching hellos, your child's hand has grown, and yet matured fingers wave the same stiff timidity, knucklebones yet couched into warm capillary, growing to frenetic temerity as your eyes adjust to this magician's heart, slow horizon breach a Cheshire smile, I am invisible here, except for that which you feel, now, and now, a shock of intimate wonder, somehow, we have crossed an impossible distance.
We are wind borne petals amidst a color strewn endless beyond, amidst a supernova sparkplug stretching for a single breath, arms of cosmic yaw, dotted by gardens of accreted ore, limbs aligned in tantric poise.
Don't let the ground lights deprive you of such splendor.