A poem to meditate.
Remember that your gods are alive
that they are not captured in stories any more
than you are captured as the girl who won the spelling bee
only to lose the next or the one who cried
over a boy who never wanted love.
If you cannot be easily summed up,
never expect it of Powers. Never
limit your knowing to the words of the long dead,
themselves captured in the instant of writing,
a slice thin enough for a microscope, too delicate
to hold more than one instant of a mortal
life. Do not blind yourself to what lives
in fatal reverence to what once was. Live
with them. That boy is forgotten for one who loves
and the spelling bee fades to a memory, a dusty trophy.
Do not make trophies of your gods.