Maybe, a bird of clay, patted, flies away
off the divine assembly line
one after another
from water to a woman,
cosmos after cosmos.
God in a self-imposed sweatshop
churning out unending curios
each unique and commendable.
Or, maybe, creation
is a self-perpetuating system
that needs not the constant attention
of an engineer but only appreciation.
The creator gazes with admiration.
But, without God’s devotion
we would all slip into dissolution.
Maybe everything comes from a self-gift.
Creation is the revelation of
love replicating love.
From the chasm between
Christmas and the cross
an upwelling: as air is to wind
so self-giving love is to creation.
Dear Subscribers,
Let me suggest you listen to this poem and not just read it. I think it makes more sense if you hear the inflections. Either way, I appreciate your attention to this poem. If you like it, let me know. If you want, share it with a friend.
