The pastor’s wife considers gray

 Am I a God near by, says the Lord,
  and not a God far off?
                                    
Jeremiah 23:23

Some days Yahweh's crayon box
holds colors for tiptoeing within regret's bold
lines, and others for scribbling acceptance's
Wild Blue Yonder on bathroom walls,

jet trails through every grown-up's sky. Silver
becomes the dime I find in Seven Eleven's
parking lot, the memory of a minnow's flash
or Aunt Mary's lost ring—found.

And there's this gray crayon's violet wrap,
labeled Purple Mountains' Majesty,
Crayola's Rosetta Stone, a god gone corporate,
and international conspiracy to grab a child's soul.

But what I'd like to believe is that Yahweh, most
mornings, strolls through his garden toward a hillside
door, tugs it open, waves on light, revealing
countless casks holding dyes, glimmers, petals,

screams, crushed insects, explosions, rust,
ointments, folded galaxies, sage,