He works hard at his religion,
this man gifted with words,
with motives.
God is on trial, with genuflections.
Put in the dock and asked to swear,
is this what you meant?
Is this what you’ve done?
Do you dare to exist?
And do you follow your laws?
And his friends join in.
They travel around beer, around wine,
making stops now and then,
until day, like a wilted flower
falls over,
until the evening becomes dry of its sweat,
until night itself yawns
and begs for relief.
But God sits quietly in the dock,
saying nothing.
Listening, waiting, watching,
the man and his friends try him.
Watching the moon set
and the stars blaze,
like crystal in the night.
Hearing the far off cries of children,
the whoosh of moth wings,
the soft tenderness of a mother’s voice,
singing.
He is patient.
He is alone.
The wind blows through him
unto the beach.
Prayers gladden him,
and he weeps,
and he cares,
and he suffers,
and the long distance of forever
covers his shoulders,
and makes him cold
and weary,
and then he sleeps,
as the man goes on questioning,
cajoling,
waiting for answers.
The man’s friends too,
challenging for one last time
why God stays silent,
why he sits so quietly,
while the night,
the heavens blaze,
and untold worlds wait.
They do not question.
They do not ask where he is.
They do wait.
They know him.
They feel him.
They forget what true darkness is,
for only he knows,
and he is not telling.