God Smokes a Corncob Pipe

God Smokes a Corncob Pipe January 11, 2012
Miner, Kentucky 1946

There is dirt
God’s fingernails.
He is
a hard worker,
when to work,
when to rest.
He mines
the dark corners
of my soul.
At the end
of a day
He emerges,
hands full 
of blackness.
I avert my eyes-
though some
of it is my creation.
God never
all at once,
with everything.
He knows
I would die,
of sorrow.
What is more,
I am the foreman
of my soul,
(if I am cowardly).
At times I insist
that God return
what He has found.
It can be too much.
When I lose
He waits,
feet up,
a corncob pipe
and whistling.
God is a miner 
I would buy
stock in,
he is gentle
and does not
mine junk.
He doesn’t blow
the tops off
majestic mountains.
Darkness is darkness.
But this is the God
who turned
a bloody death
into salvation.
When He mines 
it turns to gold.
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