in which I talk to You.

You are God...butterflied and blue-eyed,
make-up artist extraordinaire, blond, black and brown haired.
You are the God who wades in my darks
and seperates the whites.

Waltzing, graceful God--
You are the pastel chalk I use
when all my crayons break.
The God of paper flowers and comic strips-- the God who sits
on a couch, inside my belly and tells me stories
of war and Christmas and last week.

You are God--interdependent, 3 in one,
Father, Ghost and Son--
You drape last Tuesday across a chair and love me
despite the holes in my nylons.

Oh God of assylums and peace pipes,
please put me in Your silver goblet and drink me
down with Your half-chewed turkey this Thanksgiving.
Oh God of every season, of every reason to believe
in thorns and blood and rolling stones,
help me sit down and let You stand.

Oh selfish, self-less God,
break me to pieces in Your hand
and give me a thousand tongues to sing
of this freedom.