God hides in the smallest places:
the carelessly upturned cuff of a sleeve,
the highlight in a lover's eye,
tucked inside the spine of some book,
like a ribbon of place-marker
the pistil of a flower,
the smoke plume from a pipe,
swirled air through a Monarch's wing,
half filled cup, sitting in the sink,
dried tears on a handkerchief,
the pause, in a sob of anguish,
half burnt letter on the fire.
when your hand finally attempts to close on god,
you will find instead lint, dust, spores;
even though we are the predatory species,
the original hunters.
we are hunting that
which has turned itself inside out
and wrung us out, like ants fall
from a rotting log.
our busyness only takes us farther away,
farther from the beginning;
we must make ourselves smaller
on the inside,
than the smallest creature;
an ovum of closed intellectuality,
for we are the keyhole,
the minutiae, of god's existence
in the chess game
of the solitary mind,
we are the pawns:
god hides in the smallest places;
for he is also the master hunter.