April Loves

She worships her western horizon toward rippling river, sparkling, hinting of lightning pasts and futures. Leonardo is wrong. This seems unlikely, perhaps judgmental, harsh, even so, his God clearly reconstructed in his well-owned glorious image, universal God of Creative Majestic Architecture. But, for her, as she watches bruised red wilt into painfully pale lavender, over black night's forest line, cerebrally alone, sacredly uniting nature speaks through Gaia's rich-timed EcoLogos Voice, sometimes in pastel skies and meadows, sometimes in relentlessly lavish vibrant green, sometimes Full Moon, New Moon,... Rain, Wind, sometimes sublime on her tin roof, whistling through worn-out window frames. If God were made in her image, creation would speak in reasoned fertile seasons of shadow dark, and lightning bright, synapses of climax, echoing down river valleys rolling out grand majesty of thundering EcoLogos, perfect rhythms, rain beating Earth's enlightening future. It would have been more revolutionary and probably therapeutic, most certainly lovelier, had Leonardo portrayed God as Earth's logos voice swirling light as surf, tidal river waters gleaming wide at dusk, narrower in dawn's first light, a ribbon flowing light emerging west reflecting waters greeting eastern sky new again dawning, Gaia's morning river of emergent logos translating Sun's architectural might.