Carries On

By, Jove, quips God, What
                                   went wrong
here?
He
slogs through our muddy mess,
scratches His head.
Shrugs.
Wonders,
              Why did I promise not to
flood this place again? 
Makes
                                     mental note to be careful with those
                                                                  covenants.
Dust, he mutters, now shakes His head.  Snorts.
It would
be funny if it
wasn't so damn sad.  He kneels,
pounds His fist into the dirt,
and the
earth quakes.
Humans
hardly tremble.
Calming, He sifts
           through
           the
sand beneath Him, soiling His
fingers with our remains,
pondering
what might have
    happened had
    he
added
an eighth day, a
  ninth day, a
       tenth.
But He's always had a thing for
                                          sevens.
He calls down the
                                                                angels
to console Him.
They hover round with
                                             reassuring whisperings,
                                              reminders gently spoken
                                                                             of
the why.
They praise creation.  He smiles wistfully
                            as they list reasons of why,
still,
                                         it
                                         is
good.

God is swayed,
         stands invisible upon orbiting sphere, begins
          to move in rhythmic dance with heavenly host.
                                                                                   Slowly,
at first,
then
     faster,
       all ethereal bodies tapping
     feet and waving wings and
             arms.
The
                        trees catch on and join in,
limbs
leaping,
leaves swinging, and then
                             the waters too, rippling and
                                                             laughing in cascades and currents, dispelling
myth of disinterested deity
              distant
               in the sky.
We name the action, 'storm,'
                                   sleep even sounder with no inkling of the minds of mountains
                                                                                                 bending,
the
rocks reacting
                  in refrain.
We are a pragmatic people to our core,
                             ignorant of the vibes of glory just outside
                                           our door.
We,
                                                             who lag so far behind the simpler
                                                                                     beings,
the crux of all His hope,
and somehow blissfully
         unaware.
               When morning mist
                                     gently wakes, we deck ourselves in plumes
                                                                               of
practical endeavors,
busy ourselves with our own
importance.
Pass out blame, take all
credit,
employ herculean efforts to
                 run the show
 and live in secret desperation until our deaths.
And God
stands on the precipice of
 the impulse of
annihilation,
thinking,
Maybe this
               is mercy,
then catches sight
of just one ragamuffin mite,
watches
                                              with interest his silly antics .
        Somehow, this creature softens
                          the father's heart of
God,
and so He caves.
                    He gathers the angels for a huddle,
sighs,
and when He
                                                                             speaks,
the wind whirls, emitting secrets infinite and
                                                                                                the world carries on.

The Sunday Whirl