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"The Patterns of It All" (by Joe DiMino)
There are things too perfect
One dare not taint them
Even with a thought so changeable
But just sit in awe and gawk
Letting them speak their own mysteries:
As the sun speaks its light
Into blossoms; and the moon,
Needing no Michael to chisel away
Billions of years of artful peaks
And shadows
Leave that to the lovers
Who made them
And the poets
Who exalt them
And the scientists
Despite their elegant brain power
Who cannot maim them;
Rested God not till His claims
On the patterns of it all.