God who holds everything together
by whom molecules bind and firing neurons form thoughts
Inventor of toddler snuggles and loving glances
by whom rocks banging together can result in
spring thaws
the living sound of water escaping snow under a late february sun
of birds, giddy with newness,
in competition for the most weightless song
incursions of purple into a wasteland of white
as the crocuses sense that something is coming
it’s coming
there’s snow on the ground but we know that it’s coming and you can’t tell us otherwise

God by whom I have been seen
God who has met me
on the floor of that apartment
on the way to that hospital
who has not required of me
perfect dogma
who has only asked me to accept comfort and to know peace
who at times when there was no floor
has told me that I would not fall forever
who has shown me that
even when it is not alright
somehow still I am alright

I’ll call you by the names I know
but I do not expect the name that I call matters
as much as that I call
and ask for a floor
just, at some point, a floor
and that when I land I would not be alone