The Ripples Of Separation

I think sometimes of that baby in the basket,

set loose

from the bank,

cast adrift

upon the  sacred Nile, the hot sun beating

(to the tune of his heart) down upon

his swaddled flesh as his arms and his legs

kicked and clutched empty air where moments

before had been the warmth and security

of his mother’s breast.

The baby too young to understand

anything except being lost to the current

of events he does not comprehend,

loss as heavy as a stone threatening to drag him

beneath;

never to know that his mother is lost

so that he might be saved…

and I wonder if later

(finding himself in arms that embrace him)

he, unsettled by that water’s uncertain trip,

does not believe, not ever really –

and perhaps this is why as Moses

he could cast aside so much and chance

the words of burning bush, the separation of the river

and the wandering in the desert –

that he deserves those arms and the love held within.