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.
