Creatio ex nihilo

---

I believe in the liturgy of rain

where the blue of the mountains is so deep,

cresting waves, you think such a shade

is a bar of soap that you palm

even when your hands are clean

covered in Lamb’s blood.

I mean, to know wisdom is to taste

the beginning of the world—dirt and grass,

sun and sky, the crunch of rocks and meteor—

when stars strummed to the music of God.

I’m amazed, terrified, of the wonder of

and it was so, all the bustle of sudden life,

like a manic celebration for a friend.

They remain in everything, the wisps

of one Breath, the opening cloud

that shattered the waters, tainted now

by twin rebellions. Yet I hear the clock

chime eight on a warm, sweet evening,

see skies as a flowering of silky pink,

a Sunday morning, a smolder of rain—

these seamless, mortal shapes

bubbling up from those first waves

like ephemeral prophets. Each day,

I stumble into the new, vicious light.