Who came down from Heaven
and sent you all of God's Children?
Who, like some honeyed apple planter,
of the Word, wombing his future orchard? Who?
Who, ranting, anointed you?
Who with the sun for clothing
dressed you and put a fire in your hand,
proffering language, words, and dictionaries
like some Gideon in a shabby hotel in the underwear
of learning, picking out soft sheets of sound,
and vast vocabulary? Who put you in charge? Who,
with words out of some rain-soaked
Webster's wet your mouth
with speech and philosophy,
like a spend-thrift picking through old coins
of future, past and present tense?
Who graced your throat with
sentences that could make their lips
wish for more?
Who? And are the starlings richer for knowledge?
Did their song increase? Did the darling sparrow
fall far? Did the apples
grow fat in your sun? Did the rain have
tongues that told the Rose to grow?
Who like an Icarus of second thoughts
placed desire in the mouth of babes,
not for bodies but for the wine of
words; quenching the drought of
illiterate and common hearts?
Who came down from Heaven? Who?
Was it You?