Counter-clockwise,
black stars swirl
in heart of mystery.

To others, she is
always moving in the wrong direction.
They name her Chaos, fail to see creation’s birth.
With her, change is constant. They deem her unstable,
take her random sparks to be eccentricity
without redeeming quality.

They shine steady in
midnight sky, each taking their assigned place
while she flickers, fragments of herself flying free
through universe wreaking havoc in safe,
predictable world they understand. They
cannot comprehend some other

way to be and so
view her odd singularity with air
of incredulity, mock her spinning, spewing
prophecy, dub it mere insanity. They shun
sputtering, stuttering disorganized system
they say simply could not be one

of God’s stars. Constant
revolution, shifting constitution,
proves their point. She spins, spins, refuses to stay still,
insistent on spawning firestorm flares until
they acknowledge her ranting, raving lunacy;
they laugh, say she’s lost touch with

reality and
so refuse to share their lights with her, give
her over to dark where she belongs. They write her
off, say let bygones be bygones. So it is they
never know why she came to disrupt their ordered
universe. And so, too, they fail

to see who sent her,
created light of God, voice they did not
heed – they who failed to see their need, who deemed their own
brilliance sufficient and she, in her grand, sweeping
failures, thoroughly deficient.

Allowing Spirit
to shape and form, she burst one day into
being of brightest white light that shines steady in
shifting skies. How could they have known she was God’s own,
a star waiting to be born?

Counter-clockwise,
black stars swirl
in heart of mystery.