When I Ran and Hid from God

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I’m not thinking of spires

that glow so brightly,

the teeth of cathedrals

formed like ancestral candles,

or the words of a hymn,

rolling from my tongue

like a catechism.

I’m thinking of waves,

or faces in a mist, maybe

even my face as I wake

at the bottom of a pool.

The waters always reflect

whatever I miss most:

the sunlit creek in my friend’s

yard, the steel gray of his eyes,

the smell of lavender, and,

always, yesterday’s light.

I’m sorry for all the pencils I stole,

the spit I threw at the old ways,

all the fire I held to my bones

to light smoke signals to reach you.

You have laid me among

the secret things, but I tell you

each tragedy is another

something to solve.

And the world continues,

God willing, even though

Eden has lost its loveliness.

It runs around now, talking

like a drunk voice on the phone,

babbling low, never shutting up.

I know the very earth is an echo,

though I wonder if others see

stained glass in the seams of leaves.

My fingers touch soft ground,

the field grass, the tattered wings

of flowers—all your very earth.

Allow me these treasures,

these measures of curious grace,

even as I hide from you

in the cool of the day.