98poems/mygod

My God is
a sod woman,
grandmotherly
and still strong.

She likes the smell
of sage on her hands,
her toes powdered
with dust
from the trail
where she walks.

She puts her fingers
in the food
when she cooks,
her vegetables
carried to the kitchen
with soil still on
the roots.

She likes earrings
that jingle
and full, swishy
skirts that sway
when she walks.

She laughs from deep
in her belly
and has a keen wit –
do not try
to put anything
over on her.

She cries
when she needs to
or feels it –
when the mood
hits.

She taught
Sophia Loren
to rub olive oil
on her skin,
her beauty secrets
are nearly endless.

She hands out courage
like peppermint candies
from the pockets
of her skirt,
you can never tell
what she may pull
from her baskets or bags,
what she may have
tied in her scarves.

She always carries
things – as females do,
gifts and food
and flowers,
tidbits of this and that
and tips on better living.

She loves to give
everything she has
away,
“I picked this up
just for you –
I thought it was
your color.”

She has a certain taste
for contradiction
and irony,
which explains
both botany
and men.

She prefers one pot
meals, knowing
the road to redemption
is not paved
with cleaning up.

She likes skirts
that tie in a nice
neat knot, instead
of hanging up,
she thinks
it is, perhaps,
her best idea
ever.

She has to live
lean in order to stay
so abundant.

Time is a necklace
she strands
beneath the tree
in summer,
just to remember
its touch
on her skin.

She is roused
by the clap of
thunder,
charged by the
moon turned full.

She falls in love
at first sight
and stays there.
She knows her lover
by his rhythm
and scent.

She lives for motion
and sound, which is why
we have wind and birds.

She likes short words
and simple punctuation,
she does not traffic
in semi-colons,
or bother with footnotes.

She wrote her autobiography
before she lived her life,
she thinks that we should
do the same,
create the story
and then live it.

She squats to give
birth,
the hum of the Earth’s
engine begins to whir,
all the flowers bloom
at once,
mud hens rustle
to life,
seeking water,
you and I
and
all of it
becomes.

10/8/98