“Who is God?” the little girl asked. “What is he like?”

I had never been asked that question before. Uncertain, I paused.

“God lives up in heaven,” I answered, then hesitated. What did one tell to a little girl who had never heard of God? “He loves us very much, I guess. He made the world, and you and me.”

“I thought Mummy made me.” Frowning, she looked up at me with puzzled brown eyes.

you are the bird in my hand
our friendship is living and fragile
I can feel its heart beat fast on the vein in my palm

you are worth two in the bush
we are not entwined like undergrowth
two is the number of unattainable birds and lovers

nothing makes a bird sing like flying
nothing makes me write like falling in love

flaws for me, flaws for you
a bird in the hand cannot fly
you do not even like poetry