If in a lustrous wooden bowl
He chooses to mix
a delicious confection of
soil, silt and sky, let none free
of sin perish
in the cascades of
precious water from His
measured flask. Liquid
softens rough sand, fills dank caverns,
smooths mountains into hills, comforts
crevices with flowing
waves. But this holy
water might dilute light as well,
mute the iridescent
sunrise, drowning delicate
blossoms in the
softening slurry.
So let the batter crust,
the crumbled dough prevail,
and evil persevere alongside
virtue in the jagged canyons
of imperfect earth.