God is Corny
What respected artist
would splash gold beams through clouds?
Hide emeralds in Colombian gullies?
A self-respecting horticulturist need not graft
orange and purple blossoms to cactus for show.
Why fish, hidden in the deeps for Cousteau's camera,
eons of scarlet, blue and green
to match the birds, the butterflies?
Certainly an acclaimed poet
would not pile symbol upon symbol
on a plant called Crown of Thorns:
young spikes, blood red,
tender green leaves, suddenly dead
as red blossoms, fragile, drip gold into the soil.
What functional need for a Milky Way?
or a rainbow spilling hope?
The seasons? A bit much for a talented playwright;
spider webs before the prey,
pearl designs in morning sun.
Pearls themselves, irritation to an oyster,
hang luminescent from chains,
while hidden coal becomes a fire.
Sunsets, dawns, sand,
what practicing painter or moviemaker
would lie awake to see such dreams?
what philosopher requires such things?
This is the earth to which He sent His son;
and we weep,
for we have lost the Garden and the Son.
the spider spins,
thorns still hurt,
birds sail into sunsets.
panthers move beneath starred skies,
as birds quiet in the nights.
waves sound, crash, roar,
rain sings as well as floods,
cocoons hold sticky wings
and pearls form for women not yet born.
For God so loved the earth
we still share dusks,
blossoms that would cause a critic pain.
and each day the sun rises,
such gifts from such a Giver,
generous to a fault;
few say thank-you,
for some definitive work.