The pastor’s wife considers gray
Am I a God near by, says the Lord,
and not a God far off?
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, giggles,
lightning streaks, old lady dandelion hair,
locomotives, wine, grief (some casks leak),
blank peacock feathers, neon gas, angel raiment rags.
Then, Yahweh plays.