If you, God, are my tabula rasa

And I am one of your many amanuenses
    writing letters recommending you,
    then I am free
    to know you as I do
    and write you as I will,
    searching out your ways as I find you
    and longing to trust who it is I find.

But you are who I say you are and not,
    who they wrote you were and often are,
    who I wish you were and I hear Wish again.

So that I, exhausted, resign myself to Eckhart’s
    ecstatic, My me is God, and I am both glad and sad,
    for I turn around and there you are
    and it remains true that I see
    so little of me in you.

Still, no one is searching for me the way you are,
    even as I play my childish hide-and-seek with you,
    until you grow weary of my game
    and like a father with better things to do,
    go back to writing the ever evolving You.

And the silence resumes.