Wet Whistle

Where I went to hear
from God
was not necessarily nearer,
the dark wood, just a spoon
stained from stirring coffee,
the stars pulsing as I adjusted my eyes.

Where I went
to hear from God
was closer to the voices in my heart
than head, and although not a fan of horses,
I sensed them beating truth around the bend.

Where I went to hear from God
plumbed the water quick to creek cold,
a drop running wrist to elbow tickling trickle,
the tangent of attention reflected the ocean

as His smiling tears.