37 292
37
12 poems
Will God take a seed on the journey
to grow rice or wheat?
Or will he all the same take a tiny animal or
faultless bird into his pocket?
Will he renew the nature of this earth
in a new unseen one?
Will he stand up a Human Being as an award,
like a statuette on a table?
But all this most often is His hand—
as a young boy or, perhaps, an old man—
resting on a coarse folio
in leather binding, where life
has no weight or feeling,
or even sense, where thin paper
on another sheet separates
dried grass, leaves and flowers,
beauty as memory, like mysterious doors,
a game of scents and lost thoughts.