She worships her western horizon
toward the river, sparkling, hinting of lightning pasts and futures.
Leonardo is wrong.
This seems unlikely, perhaps judgmental,
even so, his God clearly reconstructed in his well-owned glorious image,
universal God of Creative Architecture.
But, for her, as she watches bruised red wilt into painfully pale lavender,
over black night’s forest line,
nature speaks through Gaia’s full-timed EcoLogos Voice,
sometimes in pastel skies and meadows,
sometimes in relentlessly vibrant green,
sometimes Full Moon, New Moon,…
Rain, Wind, sometimes sublime both on her tin roof, whistling through worn-out window frames.
If God were made in her image,
creation would speak in reasoned fertile seasons of shadow dark, and lightning bright,
synapses of climax, echoing down river valleys
rolling out grand majesty of EcoLogos,
rain beating Earth’s thunderous future.
It would have been more revolutionary
and probably therapeutic,
most certainly lovelier, had Leonardo portrayed God as Earth’s logos voice
swirling light as surf,
tidal river waters gleaming wide at dusk,
narrower in dawn’s first light,
a ribbon flowing light emerging to west
reflecting waters greeting eastern sky enlightenment,
Gaia’s morning river logos
translating Sun’s architectural might.