In Praise for the Little Gods
I’m surrounded by the little gods:
the gods of grey days who breathe their damp breath,
keep us at dew point, push us beyond it
into a spritz or rain, and further into real rain,
who sometimes leave the scene at the request
of an unhappy sun, whose time it is to shine.
The little gods escape
my notice sometimes, the gods of cats
who quietly mewl, and rub themselves against my leg,
who want nothing more than food, or a cuddle, who want
to go to sleep in random places on the floor;
the gods of pink shell-like flowers
with tiny crystal marbles on their petals,
left by the gods of grey days, to shine in the dull times.
The little gods leak—or leap—
from my mind, from my pen, from
the lips of my lover, who is unaware
that she just gave birth to god.
But the little gods pass, the little gods die,
disappear, to be replaced by new ones
in endless parades of momentary
incarnations and reincarnations,
and I find a ghost in my mind
whispering, “I and Thou”,
to these little gods,
to the tune of the Sage of Jerusalem.
The Sage of Jerusalem is Martin Buber who wrote a book entitled "I and Thou".
