Friday Sundown

God is so tired.
She has made so much these last six days,
Day and night combining Her elements,
Feeding Her people, ordering Her holy angels,
Turning mere chaos into great anti-entropic order.
Her back hurts. And Her feet.
I am so willing to help. I will rub
Her exhausted parts. I will whisper to Her
The endearments that arise so fully
In my heart.

She lies down beside me.
She sighs.
She is unapproachable, unknowable.
I have lain here with my offerings
But She doesn't need them. She is
Resting from Her labors and I must abide
In silence.
She falls asleep.
My prayers remain behind my lips
Slowly cooling like a coal of fire.

My prayers are never fully uttered.
I never say what I most deeply feel.
I am ashamed before Her. Beside Her.
Her work raises up a temple and I
Stand in the forecourt holding my goat.

I will be up before She rises. I will
Go alone into my day, under Her sun,
And will sweat to bring the most fragile order
To Her vineyard.
And, after many days of labor,
I will make wine and will drink it
And in the reeling night She will come to me
And Her glory will be upon me
And I will rise up in adoration
And will speak the one word She can hear
If She inclines Her head
And listens through the ten thousand raised voices
To me alone.