A Nativity Poem for the Secular Materialist

In the beginning there was a cosmic soup, 
a goopy womb in which
a single strand of RNA collected
like plastic pop beads.

She was a beautiful five-carbon sugar  
four nitrogen-containing nucleobases: 
adenine, uracil, guanine, and cytosine.

And she spent her lonely days making houses.
By adenine she made a house of straw.
By uracil a house out of sticks.
By guanine, bricks.
And cytosine she used to construct a Manhattan high rise.

She lived in an infinite material universe
where monkeys type on typewriters hacking out novels,
and behold, it so happened that lo, 
one day RNA shouted into the void:

"You can huff and you can puff!
But I'm going to make a gingerbread man!"

Darwin showed up with hair on his chinny chin chin,
shaking a finger, wearing a wolf mask
so that she could resist him.

And she shut her eyes
to whip up a batch of cytoplasm
(just enough to keep from bursting the membranes).

At this point pages are torn out of the book, 
(we sent a shepherd boy to look for the missing scrolls),
but skip a little to the next chapter where there are mitochondria
rough endoplasmic reticulum,
smooth endoplasmic reticulum,
golgi bodies like angry dwarves,
and gumdrop buttons!

Somehow that,
just in time for the first animal whatever to eat it,
so life could replicate and advance
and let hunger drive it to level up. 
(BLOING! Bonus points!)

And y'all in an infinite universe you have to allow
for a little kerpow and bibbity bobbety boo.
Because everything goes on forever and ever.
A miracle - a fluke - a resurrection - a genesis -
has to happen somewhere,
and if you have any imagination at all,
you have to allow for the wonder of a cosmic symphony
that balances like a wooly mammoth on the tip of a pin.

The only thing that is impossible in all of this
is intentionality.