On Creation

There is this. The river, silent,

moving through the reeds,

the crab tree

crippled with fruit,

the doe in winter

that will die before nightfall,

and the sapling with ambition

in the heart of the forest—

all things are warm

from the forge of Creation.

The muskrat slapping

water with its tail,

the mute stones

wearing smooth in rain,

the earthworm lolling

from its hole in flood time,

and the night sky heavy

with snow but waiting—

all these are still warm

from the fires of Creation.

The ox at the yoke,

at the row's end, turning,

the yew and the heron

and the unwinding stars,

the swallow blinded

in the eye of the sun,

and the mole whose patience

undermines the world—

all these are still warm

from the touch of that Hand.

Who sows the seeds in the drops

of rain and fills the morning crows

with laughter? Who hung

the web in the spider's mind?

Tell every pilgrim you meet on the way,

the shrine of the Holy is everywhere.

~Robert Hudson