Twenty Minutes of God

For 20 minutes I said God’s name
between winter pines and manzanita
and my brain responded willingly
by wondering (more or less in sequence)
about god’s etymology in Greek and Spanish
about what it means to be named
about centuries of people building god

The rest of my body was strangely silent
apparently having nothing to say
about this should-be holiness
even when a passing car
overwhelmed the world with the rush and roar
of rubber and metal over and through the immediate universe
as surely God must have done in the ancient whirlwind

Is God’s name already so broken in my body,
fading Doppler-wise into inaudible waves,
the one remaining claw of a giant shorn pine cone
lying near me on the dark, wet road?