You wanted to tell them
about the way God goes through
dust despised, then whetted,
cells channeled, and up, tunneling Life out of root, sap,
sedimented in bark, in sense.

You wanted to tell those stony faces
of your vision of God’s hand,
extended out of Knowledge into nature,
and how you felt it, inspecting with child’s eye
the march of the ants under backyard microscope.

You wanted to tell them of your joy,
(and for that they wished you bad)
at the Beauty Unfolding, atoms speaking
such Order out of this Chaos,
that His Message might be encoded by
this teaming process.

You wanted to tell them that the Earth remembers,
that Time is God
and that our strange evolution might sound the dance
by God’s cosmic drum.
And for that they hated you.