Meet your Maker

Winter’s here, with whirling snows;
a joy so wild it’s palpable.
It’s elegant God sloughing off dead skin,
preparing to set the Earth a-glow.

Now drying His hair in ragged gusts —
till lightning sparks and the motor dies.
His angry shout’s like thunderclaps,
He bangs His fist; He stirs spring dust.

Next for a sultry summer shower;
a long one, water warm as dogs.
He has a good cry, considers a flood —
Noah spins in his grave when the Maker sours.

Merino sky in autumn, noon;
God sunbakes on Aladdin’s towel.
Fear’s in the air, in case He falls
and He’s humming some awfully ominous tunes.