Across the wet wastes,
steaming in the hot morning sun,
God moves.

Something stirs,
ripple laps the lip of mud
wind walks on water.

Across the soft, moist deltas,
beyond the narrow line of willows,
and the flat, brown plains

a green garden rises
thick with trees
tangled in vines
hazy in the heat

Voice murmurs song of creation
Voice of authority.
mayim, shamayim, behemoth
let it be.

Man stands
Man, pitiful thing
Naked in the sun
Naked in the wind.

His eyes see
Woman.
“Flesh of my flesh.”
Yet more.

“Bone of my bone.”
“My help meet.”
Ends the Creation Song
With Her.