Honey Locust

My thoughts of God are thorny
like the tree
where shrikes hang up their victims
and in May
where bees exploit sweet blossoms.

I would say
my God is less than perfect,
so conforms in profile to my face;
in hope, my hopes;
in grief, my grief;
if such,
in my disgrace.

I recognize a presence in my life,
achievement in my sweat,
in fear a cordon
that sets apart the holy.
I still fall short
in thought to thoughts expected;

or I catch
a glimpse as in a mirror;
and glancing back,
see nothing but my face,
from somewhere near
hear scratching in the wall,
as if on slate.

And if I dream?
I dream and then forget.
I lie awake,
remembering regret.
More than once
I've wished my God would let what's quit
be done.

But life is not that simple.
Doubt comes back,
embarrassing in riches,
and I stack
my doubts like plates together.
What I lack
is something I was lucky once to have:
the innocent belief
a young child has.

And so before God I am dumb.
What's to like, dislike?
The question is delightfully earthy.
What I think I know, I do my best
to respect,
still at times ask, Why?
I am what I am, nonetheless,
in the end confess,
my God
is most probably myself
in another room.