One day I needed a fondue pot. A fondue pot is not something one wants to buy. I have lived over 18,000 days now, and ... Read More
To Him who permits the storm-torn hickory to cross upon itself,
savage as thrown ink lines,
To Him who grants the turkey vulture a bare red face,
so that she might reach between ribs of the dead
and pick meat off their bones;
the rusted eye of Jupiter, blasting?
(Like a woman in her fury? I cannot tell.)
Even so, glory be.
Nor can I tell if He ordains
or simply allows hail to bruise
the soft bodies of tree frogs;
or why he does not stop the wild dog
from laughing (by my judgment) overloud.
Glory be to Him
who shaped the teeth of the wolf
in their sockets
‘ere any shepherd shaped his staff;
To Him who planted a fruit-bearing tree then spoke,
“You shall not eat,
for in the day that you eat of it you shall surely die.”
To Him Who has been from the beginning other,
Who cannot be etherized,
Who grants to life gravity and resistance,
Who is untamed by those who would harness Him,
Who spins the moon round,
round and round again,
from dissonance to resolve
until she flushes white and clean,
shining like Moses fresh down from the mountain;
Rebecca Reynolds teaches Classical Rhetoric and Philosophy of Faith in eastern Tennessee, and is a contributor to the Story Warren website. She’s the author and illustrator of the pediatric series From the Medical Files of Dr. Phineas C. Bones and collaborated with Ron Block as the lyricist for his critcally-acclaimed album, Walking Song. She lives in Kingsport, Tennessee, with her husband and three children.