Creed

I believe in him, my father, who came down from Scranton

with a brand new wife to Exeter, PA—

to have her and to hold till death did part.

I believe in all their sons and daughters

to the end of time and farther on.

I believe in every living thing, especially

the worms that make their way through seasons

of the skin, by light or shade, digging small runnels

in the soil and subsoil, knowing

that the birds won’t find them easily

and change their slither-world again.

I believe in change as well, however painful.

It’s where we live, my good friend says:

always eternal in the moment’s burn

if not burned out by calendars, a waste of pages.

I believe in stars that dangle over

barns and burrows, ditches, scummy ponds;

I believe in keepers of the watch by night,

those lonely shepherds and their sheep who graze,

their wild-eyed children who rise up to live

and learn by several degrees of chance,

becoming what they must become by choice

or merely accidents of time and place.

Signore, I believe in almost everything

except in those who can’t believe, who say

that he is dead, my only father, who came down

from Scranton on the drizzle-cloud of his unknowing

and gave life to me, which I pass on.