Perhaps God is a poet
who writes with words
of flesh and bone and leaf and flower.
Every hour of every day,
words pour out of the poet's heart,
and every word is beautiful
and true and worth the telling.
And when each poem is perfect,
and there is no more which ought to be said,
the poet gently takes the words
back into his heart,
where they are safe forever...
and then begins again.
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