I’ve rarely found Him in the buildings
where His statues live.
Where I see Him, hear Him,
taste Him, feel Him,
is outside the structures built by men.
He’s the crashing of the ocean waves
on the rocks at the edge of the bay.
He’s the wind that rustles the trees
and blows my skirt against my legs.
He’s the song of birds,
the persistent buzz of insects in the evening.
He’s the salt and water taste
of rain that hits closed lips,
of snow falling in open mouths.
He’s the glare of a big hot sun
and the gentle glow of a new moon.
He’s in the words
of those who break my heart
and those who make it full to bursting.
He’s not in any
the universal specifics