Finding G-d

When I was a child,
prayer was not a
staircase I had to
struggle to climb, but a
natural expression that
slid through my lips.

When I was a child, I saw G-d
through a stained-glass window in
the drum of our little Reform
temple, round like the edges of a
snow-globe that has not yet
shattered.

When I was a child, they
taught me the words of
the Kedushah and I
swore I could hear the
angels catapulting into
creation right there before
me.

My feet rose to reach them,
and my heart fell silent to
listen for the Almighty’s thin,
still sound.

Every strum of the
guitar dragged another
angel into
materialization.

Sitting in a bubbled room with the light
filtering around the charcoal of my
drawing board, I found G-d.
Watching the flames of my father’s
Yahrtzeit candle devour the wax,
gazing at its steady burn dispersing
darkness, I found G-d.

Looking up at the twisting tree
branches and down at my veins
branching across my wrist, my joints
sewn together like dolls’, I found
G-d.

Now I look, and
only sometimes
do I find.

Now I shield my
eyes, and only
sometimes do I
wish to see.