The Poem as Providence

By: Richard Spilman

Inspiration, God’s breath

infusing Eden’s dust—like the clay

you mold into bowl or cup,

hands and feet inured to the pace

of common ware, transfigured

for a moment by an inner music

you cannot comprehend,

there as you turn the wheel.

Now comes art, for inspiration

is never enough: to prune

darlings and pack the survivors

into the shape of a waking

dream, each revolution

as decisive as the will of God;

to whorl the walk of faith

around music fit for dancing.

God’s breath transfigured

into yours and you into Adam

in his perlustration of the Garden,

naming, throwing the world

to the shape of His desire. Is this

Providence, or merely making

yourself, by idiosyncrasy, owner

of a paradise you did not create?

For sure, you’ve blurred His gift

with constant reimaginings.

Yet from these cups, so snug

to the hand, the world drinks,

from the bowls they eat—

and share your stumbling art

of seeking God to erase Him,

and by erasure find Him again.