"Theology is the art of making simple things incredibly complicated, while pretending to make them perfectly clear." — Anonymous


My wife is made of the abracadabra of stardust.
Wherever she goes there's the radiant intensity of a constellation.
I have no proof my wife is made of magic dust, just a belief, an opinion
based on a feeling about something I know to be true,
like a religious act of faith, or a theology, which explains a lot -
about why I always seem so beguiled by facts.
But then I'd rather be smitten with my wife
who also has a talent with flowers. They grow and thrive
everywhere she goes in all their magnetic wild colors.
Flower is another language I would like to speak.
Who doesn't need a good dose of forget-me-not,
a splash of jargon from the sunflower,
and the homespun wisdom of lily of the valley.
Flowers don't need a theology to be believed in,
they're so full of look-at-me-ness you just have to believe.
Like my wife, who is also made of bones, guts and neurons
that yawn and cry and wish all the best for everybody, and clearly
I need to know more about stars and flowers, less theology.
I think my wife is made of time, all the time in the world,
and still it's not enough. I would invent a theology of time
that would show you how to live as long as you wanted.
Or a theology of love, finally crack that code on the door to paradise,
finally find the right words to say, "I love you."
What I really need is a theology of stardust.
I wish I understood the stars better in their cryptic arrangements,
to be inspired by a guiding star, follow a rising star, find your lucky star,
or, see the twinkle in your lover's eyes.