The wise, terrified
Of this world’s
Storms, beasts,
Death. Naming these
Bullies ‘gods’,
Appeasing, placating,
With their children’s blood.
Desperately seeking hope,
Control, the future
In stars, flocks,
Entrails. Never hearing
The omens’ loudest cry:
“We die, we are not
Who made us.”

The wise, masters
Of DNA and disease,
Secure, become the bullies,
Making of others’ lives
And homes what they will.
Even fashioning tame gods
In their own image
Of rage and fear and lust,
Claiming to see beyond
The beasts, the birds,
The creeping things
Who still sing sweetly:
“We live, we are not
Who made us.”

The wise, foolish
Now, letting go,
Giving up immortality,
Control; once-darked hearts
Now spring-lit, spring-cleaned
By epiphany days
Through credulous minds:
Listening, kneeling,
Finding in straw
Their star-crossed
Maker, joining shepherd
And ass to proclaim
“We thank you, we are not
Who made us.”

The wise, thankful
For all the golden,
Scented, mournful ‘fruit
Of earth and work of
Human hands’ now offered
(Knowing there is
No glory or power,
Only the foolish scandal
Of broken Love on its
Knees): The image divine
Taken, blessed, broken,
Given for all, they know
“We love; we are not
Who made us.”

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