One ordinary morning I walked into the park
past maples, elms, the ancient pines.
Pigeons were davening, pious among the bushes.
A few words fell from the Book of Nature
(that other text written by the finger of God)
their letters scattered along the path.
The squirrels went rigid, seized by the spirit.
Silence. A sudden shudder in everything—
rocks, brown pond, creatures, the sky.
I knelt to observe what letters I could.
Words sprouted and grew from the world
behind this world (its stem and seed).
The sun rolled across the scribbled heavens
where a host of souls flew. Frogs began loud
croaks, beetles took up those balls of dung.
Resin, thick and sticky, in the tall pines
red ants’ wild calligraphy—
all of nature seeping with celestial ink.