God
is
a Piedmont stream.
Wandering, quiet,
hauling mountains.
Pulling in trees,
swallowing our trash.
Not one bit racist,
not one bit privileged,
not one bit scared,
ready for us,
ready for the kids,
already
flooding our home.
So, friends, nothing
to do
but wade in,
turn into deer,
and travel the pre-dawn
greenways of the nightsilver
Lord.
—
A recording of this poem may be hear here:
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