Wednesday, January 8, 2014

My God

I meet my god* on Sunday morning at the page. 

I recognize his work through the beauty I see in my microscope. 

I meet him in the bleak hours of dark for tea and cuddles when I cannot sleep. 

I know him in the pause and turn of twilight. 

I hear him among the chirping crickets and see him in the flies that swarm in the sunlight above the grass. 

I cast angry rocks into my god and they are carried away from me with clambering water. 

I sometimes scream at my god about the unfairness of my life, over the loss of a friend.  Those screams are held in the bosom of the dust motes in sunlight. 

I fall down laughing with my god in the tall grass where I love and am loved. 

I know my god by the spots on a ladybug’s back, by the slight curve of endless ocean waters.

I see my god in the mirror.  

My god holds all my broken pieces and loves me anyway.  

* I try to use the feminine or mix the possessives, but it seems confusing.  In truth my god is gender neutral.  My language has no word for that.  

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