Oh, yes, there are pale necromancers still
Like poor Macbeth’s witches summoning facts
That rise like bloated corpses to the surface
Of strange electromechanical cauldrons

 But we consult the winds, the clouds, the stars
Whose songs and shapes and brilliant silences
Allow us to savor all mysteries
The hymns of Creation from long ago

 Some look into little cauldrons for the rain
But we look up expectantly to God