I saw God walk by in the shape of a deer
But I didn't have my glasses on
So I couldn't even be sure of the deer
Let alone God.
A neighbor says, "Don't tell me
That deer is God. I keep chasing it out of the garden."
And I wonder if chasing God out of a garden isn't poetic justice.
Abstraction is hard on a January morning,
With eyes still bleary, and a mind filled
With dreams of angels in white bell bottoms.
Maimonides said God is incorporeal. But I'll bet
He never said it before his morning coffee.
In sloppy, sleepy dawn, all is magic.
And God, tired of abstraction, is a deer.