Ask me about resurrection and now I'd be likely to talk to you about
the last warm gold light of the afternoon and fresh tea leaves and Cheerios on the floor and Van Gogh's brushstrokes and the way women clap their hands together and cross their legs when they laugh properly.
Glorious Lord Christ: the divine influence secretly diffused and active in the depths of matter, and the dazzling centre where all the innumerable fibres of the manifold meet; power as implacable as the world and as
warm as life; you whose forehead is of the whiteness of snow, whose eyes are of fire, and whose feet are brighter than molten
gold; you whose hands imprison the stars; you who are the first and the
last, the living and the dead and the risen again; you who gather into your exuberant unity every beauty, every affinity, every energy, every mode of existence; it is you to whom my being cried out with a desire as vast as the universe, «In truth you are my Lord and my God.»
I
warmed up the look with
gold accents from my clutch and my earrings, and
last minute, switched out slides for these killer red pumps.