Poetry

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Before the first tendril appeared
(and evidence, there was none)
You said it was already done
You spoke and the heavens stirred
Concerto, to the beat of your word
Finished, but incomplete
Accomplished, but not yet replete

In time, you would send the rain
And a man to work the soil
The fulfillment was in the toil
Even though, from the start it was done
And evidence, there was none
A cappella would become a cantata
Creation coalesce the sonata

It is done, but I've yet to become
You spoke and my heart was stirred
Now I dance to the beat of your word
Becoming what I cannot perceive
Though unseen to me, still I believe
I wait for the rains to descend
My purpose in you, comprehend

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