Tortured Muse

Are there traces of God
In the clock work turnings of the Sun?
The formation of clouds?
The tumult of the rains?

Does He work within the rooted plants?
Hide behind thickets of thorns?
Is He like a windblown scent
That sends the dogs a baying?

Is He etched in the faces of passersby?
The grating sounds of city noise?

Or is He in the quiet times?
Meshed in solitude only broken by the rustling wrens?

Is He in the crooked path?
The hateful smile?
The nasty grin?

Has He authored the sins of man?
The endless pain and suffering?