You doubt my omnipotence,
my existence, vast and timeless;
sadly, I can understand.

If I see and know all,
if I create and control all,
why do such atrocities
still happen in this garden?

My children, your ignorance grieves me.

I gave over control
of the greater part of your destinies
the very moment you became
beings independent of me.

Free will has been both bane and blessing.

You are free to make
your own choices, yes;
once in a century or so, you
prove yourselves capable of such genius,
but then always fall back
to squabbling over irrelevancies.

And I cannot interfere. That
was the limitation I put
on my own power
the day you were born.

I try, I do try
to reach you,
to make you once again
remember what is truly important,
what is sacred,
how you should live -

does not the sun still rise
on spring mornings to sparkle
on leaf-caught dewdrops?

Doesn't the ocean still pound on the shore
in my age-old pattern?

Is there not still love and beauty,
birth and death, wonder
and salvation?

The living world I gave to you
is a sacrament, as are you,
though you have forgotten,

just as you have forgotten that
you possess the gift of free thought
and what that implies about blame.

As if Heaven forbid you take
responsibility for your own lives.

I assure you, it's quite the opposite.

04/18/2005

Author's Note: Yet another imitation poem for my poetry class, this one of Louise Glück, same as in Compline. This is written in the voice of God (or whatever higher being/creator you prefer) addressing humanity - I hope that was fairly evident, but I felt the need to explain since that's the main thing I was imitating (Glück does that). She also uses simple language and nature imagery. Oh, and she had 2 poems entitled Retreating Wind and Retreating Light that this poem follows suit with, sort of.

Posted on 04/18/2005
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