Mud (Spenserian Sonnet in iambic tetrameter)
He rolled and formed, from spit and dust,
his basic sculpture, called it Man.
Now we expect the universe
to bow and dance at our demand.
It’s easy to forget the hands
connecting bone and shaping flesh
in his own image, from the sand,
to share this world in righteousness.
Sometimes I wonder why he blessed
us with his love, and shed his blood.
How easy we forget whose lips
breathed spirit into lifeless mud.
Perhaps divinity can see
some good concealed in you and me.
Nan (Pilgrim variety)