“It grieves me that you wake up frightened”, sayeth the book about god.
Does god grieve for my fear?
I don’t know.
How would I know?
But I do, wake up frightened that is.
Frightened that the hummingbirds will not come back.
Frightened that while the flowers bloomed and rejoiced in the sun, I looked away.
Hopeful petaled faces waited for me until they could wait no longer.
Frightened that I’ll never find the downbeat to live in real time.
Frightened that I won’t get what I want,
and frightened that I will.
Frightened that I would wake up in an empty space.
The book about god says there is no empty space.
This god novelist sure has got my number.
She knows what I know.
She wakes up in a pool of her own regret and terror.
Everyday she thinks something about this familiar dirty window is comforting.
Something about the dark recess of the house, where the air is still and the little dog sleeps, something about the smell of coffee in the morning seems like home.
But is it?
Is it the one and only,
or only one of many?
She knows what I know
and she still writes books about god.