Do you think
God held the sopping clod
with warm hands,
lifting and bending to
kiss it? Did God wipe the mud
from those worldwide lips
or stick out a slippery tongue and
taste the beginnings of
new joyous life?

Or do you suppose God never
bent down or breathed or buried
warm hands in an untilled field?
Did a soft stirring of wind eventually
crash and thunder and roar across
nations of trees before an expected rain?
And once it did, did it fall to
find the beginnings of you
and I? And when it found us,
did we look back to our sister of dirt
and up to our mother the sky
and laugh and breathe
and call both a holy prayer?