God was the master
of excuses, as Mrs. God could attest.
He didn’t need them; he just liked
to think them up. If truth
was a gray rock
he liked to add a dash
of bright orange lichen.

He extolled the virtues of frost
even as it blackened the dahlias.
All of Heaven was replaceable,
he maintained, as he excavated
the burn pit where he threw in
whatever he broke, when he worked
past exhaustion.

When he finally slept
his dreams could last for centuries,
and his daily chores fell
to Mrs. God, who had her own.
She loved him best sweet and drowsy
and tugged the clouds around him,
shushing the world.