Wondering About Wonder Poem by Indigo Hawkins

Everyone has their own image of God;
trees throng mine, towering, so there's no chance
of ignoring them, not breathing their love.
Wet ground stirs profound sadness: broken
wonder tossed asunder by a choice
vulnerability, water's poem.

Total control can murder a poem-
lead one to trust a stagnant, unjust God
expressing charity as if it were a choice,
a singular happenstance ruled by chance,
which augments hierarchy; words get broken
into ideologies, token love.

Warbling passion, humble, effortless love
seeps out of the earth, weeps like a poem
or a river, grace awoken and broken
by the same source of mnemic force that God
sows in the mind for us to find by chance
later in a dance, stumbling upon choice

by manifesting voice, but is it choice
that pulls a statue out of stone? When love,
so scarcely known, spills forth from skin, does chance
provoke its purpose into a poem?
I've been collecting questions to ask God
(of sunken ships, bodies being broken) .

One woman asks, who has not been broken?
Students stare, then start to compare choice
with motive in the many masks of God.
I reflect and know I project love
onto the divine, sing a poem
to the sky, as if there were no chance

of not being heard. But is it a chance
to think of sacred treasures as broken
pots, palm ashes, a half-buried poem?
All appeal to tangibility, choice.
Not quite dead, deep ritual red love
pulsates in fusillading pother, God.

Living, whether by chance or by choice,
bread is broken. I wander, loosing love.
Another poem, another God.