I Am That I Am

Suburbia burns silently
White candles burst in
Choreographed conflagration
Graceful limbs engulfed in
Fleeting crowns of pastel flame
Ablaze yet not consumed

Sophisticated minds swear blind
Such subtle orchestrations are but
Skittering showers of sparks
Accidentals struck loose by the
Wild, chaotic wheels of
Dogged chance

But is it so?

Are we determined by
Mechanical necessity
Some poverty of spirit to
Impute poetic grace sublime
Each painstaking design
To mute, unthinking fluke?

Or does He whose voice
In steady certitude
Called from in a burning bush
Speak yet in this quiet inferno
Blazing at the dawn of spring?
Do we yet stand on holy ground?