Bees are drunk in the red bud 

and god pretends she doesn’t see

us watching.  She blushes, like the sun

after cloudy days, and rushes to see

more than we can: colors not meant for our eyes,

cells too small for our magnifying abilities, 

insects deep in some wooded slope, systems

in our human body and neighborhood 

galaxies undiscovered yet.  She blushes 

even more pleased, like a child finding 

her feet.  And her feet—the creator’s feet—

stretch all the way to our core. 

“when god prays to himself/ using the fog’s opaque cushion, we know god is a child/ who pretends to pray” from “Fog” by Vi Khi Nao.