The stars spread their glitter still,
And the moon slid slo-mo down in the west.
God put on her bathrobe and came downstairs.
It was made of the softest wool
From my friend Roy's sheep that he loves so much.
I know because he told me how he sat and carded and spun it for her.
God put on her bathrobe and made herself and me a mug of strong black tea.
It came from Darjeeling, India.
I love this tea, don't you? she said.
My favorite, I said.
We sat in God's big, fat matching armchairs and sipped the good dark.
Then she stretched out her hand.
Come, she said and patted her lap.
I looked a question.
I set down my tea, and God did too.
I climbed onto her knee, and she put her arms around me.
She rocked me.
I burrowed into God's cushy breast.
Her fingers played my silver curls.
It's all right, she said.
You can't do anything
To end this.
Not even that? I asked.
Not even that, she said.
If you want to comment, and I hope you do, please write your words here, rather than on Facebook.