To know what god is

He is not the creme lilac in the front yard
Nor the purple lilac in the back yard
But he is the paths between them
The steps and the breathing
the shade and the sun

You are in the middle of him
and can not define your existence
Anger rips you as you accuse the universe of being it's toy
You are but a toy unto yourself

Fleeting and futile like a four year old
wishing that the sun would shine through the night
The woman dressed in black is no angel
Neither is the one dressed in white

The spade you dig with finds rock not answers
And as the women pray for you
and as you mistake them as some holy sign
The lilacs come into flower

The four year old is pulled from the front gate
and ushered inside
as the sun sets
Each step toward the front door is a whisper

They may say you can see
make out the shape of him
or prove he doesn't exist
Oh my dear clever pretenders you are the soups aroma

You stray enough to please the world
to please the earth as if it were a nose
Pretending to cultivate something beyond ego
attempting to touch the both lilacs without knowing the shade or the sun
Are you straws for heaven's juice

Or unknowing comedians entertaining some panel of higher awareness
far into the unknown
\Furlongs from the lilacs
Clever pretenders you bend beliefs and taint reality to forge documents that claim...
to know what god is!