The mist collects to droplets on the leaves,
slight inches from my eye. I stare.
I do not see the force and law that forms
the silver globes. I do not see what’s there,
for spinning wild is how the atoms mean
the world. I stare.
Simple, still, and silent balls, the water
drops just make for me the maelstrom
into symbols. And I stare.
All men by nature want to know for sure
and poetry is knowing what is there.
The poem is the end of artifice, I’m sure.
And then suspicion that this thought itself
will wisp into some final sucking fire,
this thought that thought is simultaneous
and simultaneous is how to think.
When I affirm that God is one in essence,
essence still, and silent and indeed so simple,
and yet hypostases, yet three, are he and he and he,
the creeds seem end of artifice for me.
I know I think too much, while grass in blades
is choosing how to shape the tuft of blooms,
yet bees are hyperlinking blooms in air,
yet atmospheres are swirling over continents,
yet continents are spinning, wild, the world
into the artificial silver globe among the drops
He stares. He stares, He finds His thoughts take shapes
as artificial lines. Yet good. Yet very good.
TimothyOne 