God Makes an Omelet

By Sheri Reda

Morning has broken.

First me, then you, then the country

strewn left and right, spoiled

most certainly, salvageable perhaps

indispensable for what

                                     the blackbirds keep heralding,

the hopeful song they once sang

for mornings broken as yesterday—the same song sounding

tired and tireless—

as the first illuminated day

                                            in Eden,

where sunlight played in the future ruins.

---

A previous version of this poem appeared in Stubborn, published 2016 by Moria Press.