You think the trumpets are for God
and they are.
But as you sing your praises to God in heaven,
heaven echoes them back to you
a thousand fold.
The rumors about your depravity as a race of beings
are just that; rumors from pale, angry celibates
whose projection of regret
fuels their loathing of laughter.
Can you see how wonderfully made you are?
How delightful to God?
Can you see how much God craves you
like a prisoner for a banquet?
While you sing about glory and honor and praise
I wait for you to leave, and cross the street
and stand there waiting for the car
or the bus
depending on how much money you have
And when you least expect it,
I kiss the back of your neck and whisper
that you are wonderful and rich in spirit.
And you turn, startled.
And then you turn again,
the way Maru did in the final garden.
The turnings spin the planet.