He peoples the darkness with stars: Eyes in all that vastness. He stores sunlight in his tabernacle Meting out each day enough to gladden The trees and moons with their changing Colors. Vestments over land and sea.
Space is a trellis in his garden. He scatters organelles, pods, bulbs, Protozoa, spermatozoa, ovaries All bursting into blossom. Every womb Awaits the coronation of its birth. Stone fruits and star apples.
The universe plays his tune-book. He breathes sacred airs Obbligatos, cantatas, Sephardic chants. The seasons speak through him: The timbrels of spring, the blare of high summer, Fall’s blue cello, winter’s gusty pipe organ. Angel rapture and our plainsong.
Years ago during the Christmas season, I was in the office of the inner-city congregation I served when the intercom buzzed. "There is a young man here who wants to see you," said the secretary. I knew what that meant. There were many homeless in the neighborhood, and they all asked for money, especially at Christmas.