Seventh Day

In the beginning
A low hum
lapping waves
little mollusks
swirls of mist
before, before, before us all,
and the molten core
bubbling, rumbles, explodes
up into cones of land
where nothing grew
maybe lichens
maybe kelp
a little snail
a fish with legs
making its wet way up toward light
before us all
and the blue earth spun
and the moon compelled
and the sun warmed
and dried and convinced
a fern, a reed
some green increase
some sweet breeze
scrubbing the blue air clean—
how many times before?
How many times to come?
That low hum
that beginning.
Sherry Robbins, 2020

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