This one is called The Task.
As if God were an old man always upstairs sitting
about in sleeveless undershirt asleep, arms folded,
stomach rumbling, his breath from open mouth
strident presaging death.
No.
Gods in the wilderness, snakes door, that huge tundra
room, no walls and a sky roof, busy at the loom.
Among the berry bushes rain or shine
that loud clacking and whirring irregular but continuous.
God is absorbed in work, and he is the spacious hum
of bees not the din.
And he is far off our screens.
Perhaps listens for prayers in that wild solitude.
And hurries on with the weaving till it's
done, the great garment woven.
Our voices clear under the familiar blocked
out clamor of the task can't stop their terrible beseeching.
God imagines it sifting through at last
to music in the astounded quietness,
the loom idle, the weaver at rest.