Nantasket: On Dogma

Whose voice is it
that whispers and chatters

over tumbled jewel-stones
as the waves pull away? 

Who murmurs from under the seawall?

It may not matter to everyone,
but it matters to me.

Surely God did not have time
in those six working days

to paint every mussel shell

that impossible iridescent

blue outside

silver inside.

Surely Chance has 

far too heavy a hand
to sculpt the subtle sand ripples

and carve the serpentine channels
that cling to the ocean as it retreats
and shimmer pink at low tide.

If you have ever heard the echoed

in mountains or in meadows,
you will feel the same.

You cannot be here without knowing.