the glory of god is intelligence
or in other words light and truth
glimmering speckles in rocky terrain
a shovel lodged knee-deep in cool soggy earth,
its treasures sifted and polished
and lovingly laid to rest in the pitch-dark chasms of a hat
and then allowed to glow

or maybe it’s through a glass I see
darkly at first and only in part
shattered shards scraping my feet
as piece by piece, I forge the mosaic
and seeing is bleeding
and mending makes whole

oaks of righteousness
the planting of the Lord
which, tonight at least, obscure my view
the moon-kissed night tucked safe behind
boughs and bark and scraggly limbs
stretching skyward but keeping silent
and all I can do is peer between the cracks

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