Sylvia Plath’s little god

god with a small g wanders
behind me, catching my heels
jarring my wheels with scree.
he is the laugh in the corners
of rooms, dashing like sunlight
a witch on a broom.
god with a small g creates
an ache in my heart, I try
to follow, I start.
god on a footstool,
in the branches, the twigs,
the veins of leaves
a fingerprint like my iris,
my soul
is his.