Beyond the Veil of Snowflakes

In the hush of winter’s breath, where atoms dance unseen,
A snowflake carves its throne from chaos—blind, pristine.
No architect in the gale, yet symmetry unfolds,
A river’s patient blade through stone, to oceans it beholds.
Predictable in fury, ordered in the storm’s wild art,
Nature whispers laws she did not write, etched on every heart.
But halt, O seeker of the spark, where rivers meet the sea—
These chains of chance, these sculpted peaks, they bow to mystery.
The big bang’s roar, a deck of stars reshuffled in the void,
Quarks to galaxies, deterministic tides, yet none employed
A hand to hurl the first decree, the rules that bind the flood.
Chance forges paths, but laws? Ah, they demand a boundless Good.
We stop them here, these scribes of light, with questions soft as rain:
“Is pain a mere equation, love a fleeting neural chain?
Does red ignite in equations, or beauty bloom in song?
Is torture’s shadow etched in stone, or mercy’s plea lifelong?”
Rocks endure in silence; we, in wonder, taste the flame—
No physics charts the ache of loss, the grace that calls our name.
For nature is the canvas, vast and veiled in brute decree:
Fall from the sky? We forge our wings on tempests yet to be.
Death’s iron law? We choose the dawn, the mercy for the frail,
Not fittest claw, but justice’ call, where weak and wounded hail.
The lion rends by hunger’s script; we pause, and in the fray,
Hear echoes of a higher court, where blood is washed away.
Transcendent soul, you stir awake in gardens we have tilled,
Yet lift your gaze beyond the bloom, to Him who shaped the field.
The West adores the wildwood’s sigh, the eagle’s fleeting flight,
But misses He who breathed the spark, the dawn, the endless night.
We are no prisoners of the wheel, no echoes in the dust—
But children, wayward, homing true, through grace we learn to trust.
In the beginning hummed the Word, the software to the clay,
Laws as rails, but love the fire that lights the soul’s highway.
Hardware hums in hollow halls; without the code, it’s cold.
We yearn beyond the fallen loop, for arms of ancient gold.
Not transformation’s muted veil, but consciousness ablaze—
Communion deep as Father’s house, through Christ’s redeeming gaze.
O human truth, you ache for home, where nature’s door swings wide,
To realms unmeasured, unconfined, where wonder and the tide
Of meaning merge in endless song. Feed not the flesh alone;
Tend body as the temple gate, but let the spirit throne.
For we were made to live outside the snare of leaf and thorn—
In presence of the Eternal, where new eternities are born.