We are all just made of ice,
floating in a sea of cubes, a city old as time.
From above we are a blanket, an ocean,
each the same as the rest at the core.
Yet from above the Father sees,
knows each crack and split.
He sees the chaos,
watches us grind to dust.
Lowering a towering hand, His fingers split the waves.
Gently, Father spreads them wide,
draws the fragmenting chips.
Breathing life, he pulls us back,
puts us back together.
Smiling, he pats the others, stills the bobbing sways.
Settling us back in the water, he cups us in His hands.
“Children,” he reminds, “There’s enough for you all to float.”
Bowing down from His throne, the Father kisses the waves,
knows each scar and chip, and loves them all the same.