Another gem from Poetry Daily:
God Is Not Right, He Is Big
The news isn’t all bad. July and August
were the hottest months in human history,
but a family found the pet tortoise
that went missing in 1982. The low cloud
above me passes under the high clouds
like a souped-up Civic passing on the right.
I’ve been all over this island and still
have no names for most of the trees.
Despite the urgings of good people
I do not find Job comforting: all that
swag and bluster, mean and useless
as Oz before Toto pulls the curtain.
The plenitude and manifold texture
of things, this comforts me a little.
My old friend is in a hospice bed,
his beard gray and wispy.
His blond granddaughters, both born
months early, are up too soon,
happily demanding love and cereal.
The low cloud is nearly past,
the high clouds are scattered and lit
by the early sun. Not everyone is safe.
Not everyone is warm. “God is not big;
He is right,” that wise fool William Stafford
had the dandelions say, but they were
already drying up, forgetting
everything, loosing their frothy seeds
to scatter and settle as they might.