In the beginning was the Word,
a poet, who created with words,
and the world became the first poem.
A narrative, filled with
growing things, baby lambs,
and cotton filled skies.
An epic, with roaring seas
and ravenous mountains eating
their way towards the heavens.
A lyrical tale with shy glances,
moons, Junes, first and last loves,
and a baby’s laugh.
The beginning wasn’t just a poem,
but a harmonious song,
with major and minor melodies,
counterparts and funny intervals.
It was the bird’s last autumnal song,
wine glasses clinking in the evening,
cicadas crabby after 17 years of sleep,
and the gentle lap as water meets sand.
This song spanned eons, age after age,
each new movement a new twist
upon the same familiar notes.
We ache for words of the Word spoken
in language we understand,
and long for evidence of things not seen.
But see. Look around at the dialects
of stars, testaments spoken by their Master.
The world was created out of nothing, yes,
but it is still being created,
each day, by the words of the Word.
Each flower is grown by this magic,
just seeds and sunlight and air,
and voila, a million species of beautiful.
The Word became a tiny speck
in a womb, and grew and emerged
to speak to the wind and the waves.
This earthly orb spins recklessly
into the cosmos, moved by a breath.