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Poetry:  Natural History

 

It's in the Spring that love means most to us,
when flowers rise, applauding their own miracle,
and every event is unique as a lightning bolt,
so that even Resurrection is not entirely
out of the question.

In this time of wonder, even grey, autumnal cities
grow, spreading branches full of birds' nests to tangle
thin wires of stretched conversation, forcing hermits
and housewives outdoors to do their talking.

In Spring, the sky tugs joyfully at
the slow legs of spiders, hurrying them to fill
the airy spaces with silken writings.  It breathes on
eggs and dragonflies, and, in slight willows, worms
are etching patterns.

                       Writing and singing,
the smallest creatures fill the sunny pages with
psalms.                                   See!
God has heard them, and writes to the yet-sleeping,
to know if they still love Him.
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