He spoke of holy words one day. I thought
of writing sacred songs: I thought I could
compose inspired poetry. But I could not.
He gathered reeds beside the Nile and taught
me paper-making. We wove scrolls that should
proclaim my written holy words one day, I thought.
He plucked three quills from golden geese and caught
a phoenix feather. Surely such pens would
inspire perfect poetry? But they did not.
He crushed a blood-red pomegranate, brought
me inky juices from Parnassian woods,
and spoke of writing Sabbath words that day. I thought
I needed time. He gave me what I sought:
eternity. Then He said, “It is good.
“And now compose your holy words.” But I could not,
for I thought He said “life” there where I ought
to have heard “words”—had I misunderstood?
He speaks in sacred words of holiness: I thought
inspired poetry was good enough. But it is not.