The Lord's Myriad

Who is this obscuring my designs

with his empty-headed words? 

Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundations? 

Who decided the dimensions of it, do you know?
     Or who stretched the measuring line across it?
What supports its pillars at their bases?
     Who laid its cornerstone
when all the stars of the morning were singing with joy,
     and the Sons of God in chorus were chanting praise?

                                                                                         Job 38:1-12

                                                                                                  

 

                                                                                                           Photos by C.Scodova
                                       

                                                     I have been considering
                                                        the multiflora
                                                           roses
                                                                in the pasture--

                                                     whether
                                                        to leave them
                                                           or cut them
                                                                out--

                                                     but see how their recklessness
                                                        is sprawling
                                                           in the perfect
                                                                light,

                                                     how the wreaths
                                                        of their perfume
                                                           are circling the doors
                                                                of morning

                                                     opening the thickets
                                                        of bird songs
                                                           blazing up
                                                                the air.
       
                                                     But what about their nuisances,
                                                        their blustering
                                                           advancing across
                                                                the grasses for grazing

                                                     and the bright blades
                                                        of their thorns
                                                           piercing the boundaries
                                                                of flesh?

                                                    And what beauty
                                                       doesn’t hook
                                                           and tear our hearts
                                                               while brushing by

                                                    or press back
                                                       the briars
                                                           of our
                                                               complacency?

                                                    And who can resist
                                                       the petal-white hands
                                                           opening their fists
                                                                of seeds and light?

                                                   The arguments are sound
                                                       in the old
                                                           courts
                                                                of reason

                                                   though truth be, who am I to decide
                                                       what is unnecessary
                                                           from what the soul wraps
                                                                her arms around so tightly

                                                   before the vast
                                                       nothing
                                                           before the Lord's myriad
                                                                rising?