When they ask to see your gods, your book of prayers.
Show them lines drawn delicately with veins on the underside of a bird’s wing.
Tell them you believe in giant sycamores mottled and stark against a winter sky, and in nights so frozen stars crack open spilling streams of molten ice to earth.
Tell them how you drank the holy wine of honeysuckle on a warm spring day.
And the softness of your mother who never taught you death was life’s reward but who believed in the earth, the sun, the moon and millions upon millions of light years of being.
J.L Stanely 1986