You weren't quite with it this morning
You bled Red-shifted light,
Soaked the clouds and stained the hills,
Startled a three year old
Not yet wise to your nature
"The birds haven't painted him yet,
He'll be Yellow again after Breakfast":
The reassurance of a father
Who does know your nature.
Of course, you got your act together
And, by eight o'clock,
You were basking in your own Yellow brilliance,
Like the celestial Emperor you are.

I thought He whispered in my ear once
Ghostly sounds shaped like words
Too brittle to hear, too gentle to fear
Could His words be so fragile?
I never heard them again.