A Thousand Slivers of Glass

Yesterday's crust of snow
crunched under my boots
after the 2 am call yanked
me from my warm bed.
I picked my way slowly
through the sidewalk ice jams,
while my mind raced on ahead.
I groaned blizzards of the
only foxhole prayer that
my numb lips could form,
Dear God! Blue baby. Oh God!
The few blocks seemed so far,
but not far enough
to avoid standing on the street curb,
watching the ambulance pull away.

I couldn't help it,
my eyes were automatically
pulled up into a desperate search
for a sign in that night sky
that looked like blue velvet
studded with diamonds.
And then, I saw
a holy trinity of stars
swipe a luminous arc
in an indigo sky, and the
cloud-veil parted slightly,
long enough to glimpse
celestial fireworks - blinking
quasars and flashing nebulae
to light your way as you
skipped gleefully over
The-Cow-Jumps-Over-The-Moon
and ricocheted past Twinkle Little Star;
you mocked gravity
with your angel escort;
and without looking back,
you quietly departed.

One question pulsated
in my mind. How can you
live when your heart is shattered
into a thousand slivers of glass?
And in the reverberating silence,
a hideous knowing took shape:
I'm in exile here,
earthbound,
shivering,
and jealous of God.