Novice Goddess

One day
I invent the moon:

when gray-eyed skies look down,

I rip a shred of cloud,
ten craters hilled with snow.
I sift a square kilometer of sand.

Then I steal away, running under starlight
just a shade away from black.
I can’t see a damn thing,
and I’m tired of it.

Upstairs, my hands sculpt and lift
and form the great marshmallow mass
to shape a sphere
not quite what I envisioned.

Perhaps
a tablespoon of diamond sutra?
(too bright)

a dash of zig-zag lightning?
(too hot)

a million white dandelions, intact and on the stem?
(too fluffy)

A prayer. A meditation.

Perhaps a quarter cup of clay,
dug clean and deep beside a pond
where lotus blossoms bloom alone.

Am I trying too hard?

Hell, I’m a goddess.
I’ll get it right eventually.