God Hides in the Smallest Places

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.