Redwoods, Summer at Saint Dorothy's Rest

Who made the world

This mote floating along

In this backwater strip of dust

Some call the Milky Way?

Who made the stars

That can't even be counted

Because the edge

Is just an educated guess?

And who are we

To think we know

One path

One way

One choice above all others

To say that it is some divine will

Some plan?

Why

When we can only sense

A fraction

Of what is measurable

And less than a fraction

Of what we do not even know to measure

Do we think we can discern

Or even know in part?

As I lie here

Among trees much older than my years

In this life

I wonder why I even ask

What purpose I may have

What plans

When here

The tree just is