she too is an architect

in the quiet of the day

god is building tiny jewels
to adorn the untired arms
of red oiser dogwood
and the tips of
sugar maple buds
and pine needles
she gently breathes in
the scent of earth
and melting ice
and listens to
the quiet concerto of birdsong
nestling in the cusped reach
of a common teasel
the chorus seeps
into the damp moss
at the base of a dying ash
and then god smiles
for she too is
an architect of lichens
and other tiny things
like mustard seeds
that can bring down
Mammon and other
such piles of pillage