Perhaps God is a poet who writes
with words of flesh and bone
and leaf and flower.
Every hour of every day,
words pour out of the poet’s heart,
and every word is beautiful and true
and worth the telling.
And when each poem is perfect,
and there is no more
which ought to be said,
the poet gently takes the words
back into his heart,
Where they are safe forever...
And then begins again.
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