Copies

The redwing comes again in May
          To weave her marshy nest.
She knows the redwing bower design
          That fits a redwing best.
The pattern never varies.
          Each reed... each weed and stick
Is woven as in ages past.
          It is her copy trick.

Then summer follows springtime,
          And autumn augurs snow.
Each year in copy sequence
          The seasons come and go.
Overhead, the constellations
          Nightly issue forth,
Orion chasing Virgo
          Forever in the North.

This copy-perfect symmetry...
          This endless iteration
Evinces the Creator
          Revealed in His Creation.
He is the God of Order
          Loving repetitious Forms.
Time out of mind from the beginning
          He duplicates His norms.

In this scheme of endless copies
          With no apparent goal,
Each of us has just one life
          To weave a human soul.
But we have no bower to copy
          So a miracle is born.
From these copy-realms of Order,
          A human soul is torn.

Through suffering... through pain and loss,
          Something new appears,
A unique and separate entity
          That hasn’t any peers.
A never-seen-before thing!
          Original! Rare! Apart!
And there’s never been a copy
          Of a single, human heart.