you make the god you want, not of gold
or even paper, but green-warm earth—hail
it as something gifted from the blue.
what is your church? but this slate blue
mountain, bare slopes, trees brushed soft gold,
solitude, song; or fall’s sharp wind, rain, hail,
snow silence. eyes closed, face lifted to hail
pilgrim thought. no room for guilt in sky’s blue:
if the soul lights, burns ember-gold—
I am. (gold-hail prayer in this blue)
Thanks to Christine for the three tritina words.