What golden hand
ignites the stars
and mutes the call of the chicadee;
who draws the trees --
those strong dark strokes
that corrugate the forest;
who lays the fuse across the horizon,
then slowly drops the sun into the sea
to spark the flame that beckons
evening into dusk and then to dark?
What angels toil again at dawn,
rolling back the violet curtain of mist
to reveal again a single daisy in a field,
and the humble bee who dances in the wings
waiting to slurp the dew from each bright petal
with his thirsty tongue.
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