The way my fingers shaped them
In a consummation of the kinesthetic
And the divine flame.
To have meaning at all--a gift of the gods;
To have significance--blessing without measure.
The crowded heavens with their lonely lights
Cannot convey the simple truth:
You are someone.
A fixture of language that could only flow
From the mouth of a perceiving other,
Giving shape to the sustainer
Who upholds creation
And tells it, not only that it is good,
But more simply that it is.