Sunday, November 15, 2009

A Voice, Creating

In the beginning
Was voice,
The spoken word,
Speaking present
Into void.
An unimaginable
Series of let there be.
And he said,
And he said let
Six times,
Then he saw.
Voice rested, a
Repose from creation.

A voice,
Slight echo,
Speaks in rhyme or free,
Pale reflection
Of the power
Of its maker.

Slight, dim echo,
Pale reflection,
Tongued memory
Of creation,
Of sacrifice,
Of redemption.

Only a small voice,
Muted sound,
Tiny reminder
Of mountains erupting,
Seas forming and
New sun blinding,
Animals galloping,
Trees and plants
Exploding in verdancy,
Silver brilliance of stars inspiring,
All life teeming,

Creating only
A voice,
A voice
To make the
Stones sing.


Maureen said...

This is lovely, Glynn, especially the last stanza. I like the image of stones singing, of hardness transforming. I can imagine the echoes and reverberations, the repeating, as your words repeat.

Anne Lang Bundy said...

Absolutely exquisite, Glynn.

"Pale reflection of the power of its Maker ..."

My soul is satiated. Thank you.

Unknown said...

Anonymous said...