God of the Sound of Particularly Tender Laughter

you have this affinity
for things you built with your
own two hands
have this obsession with creation
that's why you learned
to grow berries from the ground up
why you write poems about every person you meet
why you taught yourself to make wine, crepes, bread
and they call you the god of
the feeling that life is worth it, after everything
you used to wander the aisles of the supermarket
at three in the morning
because you worked overnights
called the glow of your headlights home
and fell in love with the way people looked
as silhouettes moving in the dark
and you called yourself the god of
the moon as seen through the windshield on your way down the highway
she was an outline
filled herself in with water colors and doubt
made herself a collage
skin all magazine clippings and faded photos
she walked quiet
talked soft
touched soft
and you named her the god of
long nights and tangled hair
you borrowed strength from the god of
the promise you make to yourself that you will be better
allowed yourself to become clay in the hands of the god of
paint bleeding through paper
share a bed with the god of
patches of sunlight cast through the blinds
and this world is so full of minor miracles
minor gods
hands like steeples,
eyes like stained glass windows
and that's why the deities of ancient lore
stay where they belong
because war is ugly
the hunt is violent
time is fleeting
and no one would worship at the altar of dedication
if not for the god of the sound of particularly tender laughter