I stand in the quiet kitchen before my stove,
Hand on hip, skating the butter stick
In elegant figure eights across the black iron.
Tiny bubbles twinkle in curving bands.
The cream twirls against the coal sky.
I smile to see what He saw first.
I clutch my coat closer to my chest,
Blowing its air into the Iowa night.
The line of skinny poplars reach
Their fingers to the sky, and I pull back
My glove and sleeve.
My eye traces the finest, smallest tree
Upon my arm.
There He is again.
It’s dangerous to study the sky
While driving, but that school of birds
Reminds me so of that flock of fish.
Their movements identical, do they know
That they proclaim His mind?
My mind joys to see His beautiful patterns
copyright by the author