All We Have of God

If all we have of God is
the earth we stand on, the
water that covers it &
makes trees to grow,
& one another,
I believe it is enough.
Who is God if not the
divinity that courses through
everything that lives?

Please do not tell me love
is not inherently holy.
I learn God through mine every day.
I learn God through this longing:
to be closer, to know, to touch,
to understand. An aching
to be nearer yet, nearer yet. This,
I have come to think, is what
it feels like to pray.
I did not know what it meant to
feel the peace of God,
until I, curled up beside the
woman I love, felt the sun of
her presence, felt the soft
humanity of her skin, felt my body
exhale. (My need to move, to always
move, let out a deep sigh &
closed its heavy eyes.)
They say the love of God must be
held with fear & trembling, and
for years I thought it meant to
shrink, to hide. Now, I
consider my mortality; that I will, yes,
I will die, and so will she, and that
nothing, nothing, scares me more.
Still, what can I do but love her wholly?

To love her: Holy.
(Why bother to
argue the details?)

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