God is here.

I see it, the divine presence,

In the leaves that sway softly on a light evening breeze.

It is ephemeral, has been sensed

As a vapor rising off the body by many people

Who sit beside a still, smiling grandma

Or an uncle who shed a tear and said

"I'm sorry."

The scientists are funny.

They struggle so to name it with their words:

Strings, plasma, force field, gravity,

Electro-magnetism, waves, quanta, dark matter,

Insisting regularly that the entire universe

Is based upon some form of flake or fluff

Or confetti or even unheard energy vibrations.

God is here.

I hear the presence in the

Indefinable chatter blubber

Of the tree frogs.

God is speaking to us

In so many voices:

The growl of the grizzly,

The screech of a hawk,

The hum of the stinging insect,

The sting itself.

God reaches so desperately

For the voice that a human may hear,

And understand.

God is in the brick and mortar

In the furniture and the sheen

On its surface, put there

By oil, cloth and diligent hands.

Wax, water, bacteria, flowers,

Trees, waterfalls, swaying grasses,

Majestic stone, thundering clouds, crackling fire.

Still the audience looks around, puzzled interest,

Eagerly listening to itself, for itself,

Shuts out the din of calm silence,

Ignores the wisdom of stillness over a sleeping pond,

A faint flutter of something so quick and missed

It raises questions about reality.