Shape of Endless Possibility

A toddler asks, Where is God?

The first time you asked
Where is God?
I had just shown you
the moon again,
how He made it to glow
when the sun slumbers down
a jagged horizon.

You were fresh into this tired world,
two years and a few days old.
Your eyes roamed to the neighbor’s dark yard,
to the rosebushes,
back to the sky.
Where?

I told you He was inside,
here, palm to my chest.
And then yours —
hand wide as your ribs, lungs, diaphragm, heart —
I told you
He could be inside.

In the moments since it occurred
to you to ask,
the stars stared back at a boy only just awakening
to the idea that God must be.
Somewhere.
And you understood something more.

You saw beyond the rosebushes
and the chain link
and the Milky Way,
lifted your hands into the shape of endless possibility
and declared
Anywhere.