We see God in the shapehe shows to us. For some, fire.For others, holy smoke, oil,a running river, sheep’s crook,muscular right arm that holdsagainst the dark, the dread.It is the oddity of poetsto not see the world straight onbut at some slant, under the skin,behind the scrim—a scurryof leaves, clouds. God speakshis presence in the wind.I sensed him even in the inkwarming within the pen beforethese words arrived.
Luci Shaw, from Bellingham, Washington, is the author of numerous collections of poetry, including Harvesting Fog (Pinyon) and The Slow Pleasures (forthcoming from WordFarm).
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