How dare the masters painted you
-- white robe, face, flowing beard --
in their own image; a belief so sure to know
where to place sight and sound.
When a child I prayed to this surrogate
grandfather hovered just above
because there was no other but
blind faith -- my linage begot in a garden.
And I pray blasphemy is forgiven
because I like you better now,
the way Carl Sagan painted you,
and praised your name -- quasar,
and planet; northern lights for halo.