One. 

Some days God is warm nearness.

She is all at once

            embracing me,

            kindling a fire in the wood stove,

            filling my bowl with steaming broth,

            kneading the bread,

            carrying my worries in a bundle on her back,

            turning back the quilt on a soft bed,

            and singing me to sleep

in the tiny cabin that we share.

 

Other days I fend her off. 

“I have no time for you today!” I say in her general direction.

Emails. Laundry. Diapers. Netflix.

 

Two.

I think to God I am a toddler.

Cute. Full of passion. Stubborn as anything.

 

When I wake up scared in the night

and when I trip on the ragged edges of things,

I demand her nearness,

shouting myself hoarse until she lifts me up close to her face.

 

When it comes to putting on socks

or holding dripping spoonfuls of yogurt,

I push her hand firmly away.

I will do this life all by myself.

 

How often does she sigh and shake her head at me?

Is that a smile at the edges of her mouth?

Three.

Earth Creator,

Do you feel pain?

Do you gag and heave with polluted watersheds?

Do you scream in agony with clearcut forests and eroded mountainsides?