…but above freezing so not slippery.

Here’s a poem I came across yesterday. Apparently a number of well known poets were asked to take a Taylor Swift song as a starting point for a poem. Since I don’t know Taylor Swift from Adam, I don’t know what song served as the prompt for this, but I think “Creation" is a mighty fine bit of writing.

Creation

Dean Rader

And on the eighth day, God

was totally done with the haters. Nothing

but complaints about acne, mosquitos,

unripe fruit. Where’s my house? Where are my

clothes? What’s with the serpents? And so

God did not bless the eighth day. And

she did not rest. And she did not

see that it was good, in part because

God’s boyfriend told her to clean

up the areas around the swamps and

make more mountains. His best work?

An asteroid. Whatever. Has he even seen

the firmament? She nailed it. Beaches too.

And lord the animals. They never shut

up, but she doesn’t mind. They are hers.

And the color of the sky? She invented

that. Same with fire, but she’s saving

the good stuff for later: rain, earthquakes,

ice storms, lightning. Wait till they hear

thunder. Now, that’s godly. A reminder.

At the present though, it’s all judgment,

all critique. Nonstop. And rude. Everyone

thinks she is getting it wrong. But wait

until they hear birdsong, wave wash

leaf lilt, wind rush, river run. She made

the howls of wolves, the bristle of cicadas,

the puddles of rain, and all the cries. And she

made the sounds of sticks and teeth and tongue

and stone and skin and mouth and bone

and sea and roar and wail and call and

clap and sigh and gasp and moan and

mew and chant and chirp and purr and

trill and hum and laugh. She is making

music. That’s what they don’t know.

But they will. Because everything is

moving, everything vibrating in one

great dance that is the act of becoming.

Let there be light, and there was light. She

will put behind her the darkness of day eight.

Tomorrow is day nine. She was born to create.