I recognize the Book of Genesis
now as a to-do list with some
low-hanging fruit already picked.
No need, for example, to cloud:
storming or fogging in the morning
has been taken care of.
The willow and wisteria stay thinned
among gnarled cherries and berries
in the north lawn, given mostly to moss.
And the children grow tall,
as they are supposed to do.
But there is clearing out and some
creaturely crying left undone
from the fifth day, and if not written
it's hinted that the stars
are to be used as semaphore,
a visible vow in the closely woven
firmament, so you and I can create
the blue moon, the red dusk,
and each eclipse return, equinoctial
as the wedded exiles we have become.