Different Gods

A god has many ways. A god is blue,
and rises early, but by evening fades.
At dawn, unfurling in a layer of dew,
it flaunts its vibrant hue among the blades
of grass, calling the moths and things that crawl
to taste its nectar, drink its violet shades.

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A god’s a furious thing, but starts out small.
Its chemistry is hunger; as it grows,
restless, never sated, blooming terrible
and bright, it eats, until in gasping throes
it leaves just embers. Offer up a prayer —
honor the dying god that faintly glows.

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A god’s that thing that bathes in wisps of hair,
eats silverfish, and whispers in empty rooms.
Its many eyes are whorls of dust that stare
at you uneasily. It weaves on looms
of insect dreams, drawing its spindly shuttle,
hanging mandalas in angled glooms.

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A god is many, limitless, and subtle.
In the corner of a curious eye
it slashes the sky, or dances across a puddle.
It laughs in swift suggestions — a dragonfly,
an iridescent beetle, painted brightly
in translucent ink that fades when dry.

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A god is almost nothing. A god falls lightly,
tumbles like the world, refracts its wonder.
A glassy marble, surface shimmering slightly,
twirling dreamlike through the infinite air,
it dives into nirvana as it passes
from one glistening life into another.