By Remica L. Bingham

Why he got you here
pretending to be human?
Why he think we need
your hushed voice warning us
that we can’t answer
imperfection, can’t tame it?

Why he groom us
to let you go
and why spirit got to be
barely a sprout, younger
than most anything planted
in the harvest field,
holding some spindle of autumn—
twigs and stems spun
olive or golden or auburn—
in her hands?

Why send something more fragile
than iceglass or worn sheets?
Why kindle
your plain logic—put it in your heart
to sit near picture windows
when storms rise, call the ancestors
claiming them, whispering everything
most won’t hear—all the world
and all that frightens me in it?

Why he got to make sure we know
we’re a stone’s throw
from oblivion, reminding us
every time you turn our corner,
God so big
even his smallest things
sparkle like a million
silver coins?