Voltaire once said
that all the arguments for God’s existence
hardly add a thing to what
we know already, being here.
We’ve walked in corn rows in midsummer,
seen the field aflame.
Even in winter there was
light enough to satisfy our need
for reassurance. God is
everywhere in wild abundance.
He waves from terraces or even cries
from windows in the alley.
Wants us to believe in yellow beams
that fall across the floor,
the doughy light of mild mid-day,
the slough of afternoon’s blue shade
or fireflies popping in the dusky hedges.
He would have us breathe slow breath.
And somewhere in the rooms of this big house,
he’s singing without words
in brilliant passages
that find us even without looking.
Soon his grace-notes gladden us,
the humming mind within our mind.