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The sky resting above the hills is fuchsia,
Orange at turns — then quickly, it's black,
Consuming the hill.
There's the moon, and a smattering
Of stars. Your fingers — elegant, long,
Order the heavenly bodies, as a girl would
Furniture in her doll house. But the residue
Of your gestures contains light, is ordained
With light.

What are we, that you even consider us?
And Jesus, whom you visited?
You made us a little lower than the angels and
Do not touch us; save Jesus, a tree you pruned,
And at the pinch of your fingers there was shining.

You let us have all this, your handiwork:
Sheep and her nimbus of wool, oxen's curve
Of horn pointing heavenward, dolorous eye of cow,
Blue shine of black crow, fine gibberish of mockingbird,
Koi navigating the muck of the pond like ghosts, and
The pond itself, its green depths of twisted lily roots,
Its unbroken surface reflecting the tufts of clouds,
The passage of firmament.

A baby opens its mouth, a tiny "o" anticipating
The aureole, a ring of silence which in some
Lost tongue is prayer. Oh O, our O, how excellent
Your name here, everywhere.

      — Allyson Shaw