Midrash

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.