We forget that God plants each soul by hand,
unwinds the soil with rain’s cuneiform
until every body shouts with foliage
and we’re the only things visible for miles.
No. We curse the pregnant clouds, the storms they bear,
the evening fog that makes pilgrimage through us.
We ride the fences, press aboard between angels
that huddle there and rub their wings together
for warmth. We refuse their incidental songs,
refuse to bloom in the estuary of moonlight.