The angel told me nothing is impossible.
At first, I had little reason to believe.
I asked how can I make a son without a father?
the angel spoke from its wheel of feathers
and said again nothing is impossible—
do not be afraid;
you are the fulfillment of the promise made
to all your barren grandmothers.
and I said then bring me this impossibility.
and all at once I knew my son would topple cities
and scatter tyrants like dandelion seeds
blown to make a wish,
that His hands would make the moon a dish
for feeding every hungry mouth
and slam the door in aristocratic faces—
my Son is the God of humble places.
He makes millstones for every mighty neck
and a crown for every fatherless child.
He is the King of refugees, mild
as blooming flowers, the Truth spoken
to princes and powers, the opener of eyes
whose wisdom would humble the wise.
Imagine my surprise when I heard my son
repeat the angel’s words to me
when his boys asked Him whose will the kingdom be?
He told them children and women and castaways,
the fragile and the lowly and the freed.
The kingdom of God is like a mustard seed
my hollowed hands press deep into the ground.
Nothing is impossible for me.