God Hides In The Smallest Places

God hides in the smallest places: the carelessly upturned cuff of a sleeve, the highlight in a lover's eye, tucked inside the spine of some book, like a ribbon of place-marker the pistil of a flower, the smoke plume from a pipe, swirled air through a Monarch's wing, half filled cup, sitting in the sink, dried tears on a handkerchief, the pause, in a sob of anguish, half burnt letter on the fire. when your hand finally attempts to close on god, you will find instead lint, dust, spores; even though we are the predatory species, the original hunters. we are hunting that which has turned itself inside out and wrung us out, like ants fall from a rotting log. our busyness only takes us farther away, farther from the beginning; we must make ourselves smaller on the inside, than the smallest creature; an ovum of closed intellectuality, for we are the keyhole, the minutiae, of god's existence in the chess game of the solitary mind, we are the pawns: god hides in the smallest places; for he is also the master hunter.