The God of Morning

In the dawn
I dreamt of God.
He was riding a bicycle,
His strong hands on the handlebars fiercely,
The rest of him floating, billowing out
like a great sail or a ghost.
I thought he did not know where
He was headed,
Or much cared for that matter,
But one thing was certain:
He was never letting go.
He took no note of me,
Hurtling on,
Singular, determined,
Like a frightened parent
Summoned in the night
To unknown heartache.
In the morning
I awoke,
And fell in love with him
All over again.