April 18, 2015
Passionate verses settle into prose
I’m paid to type prolifically and fast.
My fingers fly in Word, but my fear grows
that sentences so mechanical will not last.
Creation follows a rhythm of its own —
world shaped and filled in six whole nights and days,
beauty in light and firmament and stone
and stars that dot the sightless void of space.
I am of earth, as Adam, and, as Eve,
of bone and flesh — as both, of Word and Breath.
Father and Maker inspires in me to grieve
my lapse of wonder and saves me from its death.
I cry for Renaissance and find His pen
still authoring me, and I find art again.