Let me tell you about my marvelous god

Let me tell you about my marvelous god, how he hides in the hexagons of the bees, how the drought that wrings its leather hands above the world is of his making, as well as the rain in the quiet minutes that leave only thoughts of rain. An atom is working and working, an atom is working in deepest night, then bursting like the farthest star; it is far smaller than a pinprick, far smaller than a zero and it has no will, no will toward us. This is why the heart has paced and paced, will pace and pace across the field where yarrow was and now is dust. A leaf catches in a bone. The burrow’s shut by a tumbled clod and the roots, upturned, are hot to the touch. How my god is a feathered and whirling thing; you will singe your arm when you pluck him from the air, when you pluck him from that sky where grieving swirls, and you will burn again throwing him back.