Beginning, there was chaos in the dark--
and breath. The breath of God went sighing through
a sea of absence: waves without a mark
toward which to roll, no play of shore and moon
to make the waters' home. Alone, no thing
fit something else--no others and no self.
Not one electron 'round a center sang.
You know the rest: the set of book and shelf,
the scales stumbling from musicians' hands
toward even steps, the gossamer circle
of spiders' lives and deaths. Each day expands
into its own expected miracle.
We carry, still, the shards of some black hole--
necks prickling for a Breath that makes us whole.
and breath. The breath of God went sighing through
a sea of absence: waves without a mark
toward which to roll, no play of shore and moon
to make the waters' home. Alone, no thing
fit something else--no others and no self.
Not one electron 'round a center sang.
You know the rest: the set of book and shelf,
the scales stumbling from musicians' hands
toward even steps, the gossamer circle
of spiders' lives and deaths. Each day expands
into its own expected miracle.
We carry, still, the shards of some black hole--
necks prickling for a Breath that makes us whole.
Forgive my delay in acknowledging this fine sonnet! Now I want to write one on the same theme!
ReplyDeleteI was pleased to see that you did write that poem! I often get inspired by topics and forms and poems you use on your blog, so I'm glad to return the favor, for once :)
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