This started out being a poem about you, and turned into a poem about God.

You are wind over frosted rooftops.

People mistake you for snowfall.

I look closely.

Those flakes trickle down,

wavering back and forth.

And I see you. There,

in the motion maintaining balance.

Letters are carved into tombstones.

To read your name, blind hands touch dust

forgotten until felt.

How Death’s smoky eye shadow celebrates


and you wrap around the lakes wrist

at night, giving people a moment

when they ask for the time.

No one sees the way mirrors watch

you. The curves to a needle’s

eye, encompassing the w(hole)

The place parallel to the point .

The place inside a covered wheelbarrow.

Hands that reach to shake yours

wind up grasping the handles.

You raise middle fingers more often than the dead.

You gesture, “Hello, it’s me” with the sound of the sun

rising. This language exhales the rainbow



                        at a time,

transcends “other”





                        at a time.

Brewed tea leaves

transcend I’s every side

when shared in your kitchen.

You are remembering to believe,

the *clinking* cheers sound

of 3 cups coming together,

when love’s forgotten.

You are the parchment this “Thank You” note is written on.

This started out being a poem about God,

and turned into a poem about us.