Every day is a god, each day is a god, and holiness holds forth in time. I
worship each god, I praise each day splintered down and wrapped in time
like a husk, a husk of many colors spreading, at dawn fast over the
mountains split.
I wake in a god. I wake in arms holding my quilt, holding me as best they
can inside my quilt.
Someone is kissing me - already. I wake, I cry "Oh," I rise from the
pillow. Why should I open my eyes?
I open my eyes. The god lifts from the water. His head fills the bay. He
is Puget Sond, the Pacific; his breast rises from pastures; his fingers
are firs; islands slide wet down his shoulders. Islands slip blue from his
shoulders and glide over the water, the empty, lighted water like a
stage.
Today's god rises, his long eyes flecked in clouds. He flings his arms,
spreading colors; he arches, cupping sky in his belly; he vaults, vaulting
and spread, holding all and spread on me like skin.
- Annie Dillard