First Light

A Poem

First Light


She says she was made
of cherries and green grass
but that is to say she was
born of the beauty of them
in her man. Orchard-born 
under a black dome
sprinkled with white pearls
she is as lovely as the quiet
night with black curling hair

He says he was made 
from dirt, rich loam that feeds 
all things under a midnight 
firmament fixed with stars
He named them. Like a tree
planted by running water he is
stalwart, straight, bearing fruit.
Rising, the sun bears witness 
to them, and to flowery demands
he share his joy with them, 
his duty, their food.

So the word feeds the world 
And the world begins growing,  
feeding, hopping, running, 
crawling. Birds begin to wake, 
try their voices with twiddle 
hirrup chirp like a symphony 
tuning for a chorus of full throated 
shouts for the praise of his glory.