I believe nothing—what need
Surrounded as I am with marvels of what is,
This familiar room, books, shabby carpet on the floor,
Autumn yellow jasmine, chrysanthemums, my mother's flower,
Earth-scent of memories, daily miracles,
Yet media-people ask, "Is there a God?"
What does the word mean
To the fish in his ocean, birds
In his skies, and stars?
I only know that when I turn in sleep
Into the invisible, it seems
I am upheld by love, and what seems is
Inexplicable here and now of joy and sorrow,
This inexhaustible, untidy world—
I would not have it otherwise.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW2-G104q7vYAKEA7etxXwzBbZbJnJf8C4DHFRUzP_8xUJM-1H2UbRcZYUBkIpYyX9ivqfUvrME6XhLsJcq50IyRgUn1N5kt-i7ng6wiC-9SBFOiZYOBpBGiE-_qO6gBQSGic2YZNVhQw/s1600/6761_b_5876.jpg)
Art credit: "Winter Chrysanthemums," oil on panel, by Kate Sammons.
"This inexhaustible, untidy world"--what a perfect line. What a wonderful poem.
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