I just recently returned from our yearly vacation to the Adirondacks, which, apart from being very restful, proved to be inspiring for poetry. I thought of the first two lines of this poem in the woods, worked on the first two stanzas later through the week, and finished the full poem over this weekend.

The earth is God’s technology,
It laps his thoughts upon its shores
And stores his hope in leafy floors
Where little feet run quietly.

So too the sky is high in hue
And feathers course the current’s flow
To gaze upon the ground below
That grows the stones in mountain glue.

Above are wheels of rolling rock
That turn about a furnace core
And prick the sky with ancient lore,
The waltzing of a watchful clock.

And we as children build with wood,
A house, a harp, a hollow well,
And, smiling with a sweaty swell,
Step back to say that “It is good.”
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