Deities are nomads – clapping wanderers
spilling and spouting wisdoms
on slopes, in tents
until enough of us sanctify a place they can call home.
A cellar, a barn, church, temple or tabernacle –
out of the weather,
in from the hillside –
upgrade the boulder to ornate altar.
Polish the halo beneath a good roof.
But then they must come up with lessons and parables.
The pressure is on . . . make us believe
in fresh fables where ours are stale.
Keep true returners hungry for allegories, mild scolding.
Threaten malevolent blights and plagues.
In my eleventh hour.
I long for them to extol us,
and reward with more than sacred snacks –
restore with blessings and love.
A beneficial arrangement, and comfortable chair.
Gold and shekels in the plate.
Occasional myrrh.
Fried chicken in a basket. Socials. Folding money.
Seventh day adoration. Got it made . . .
plus two weeks off with praise.