When they ask to see your Gods,
Your book of prayers,
Show them the 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.
A sky, in nights so froze
Starts to 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 of the softness of your mother
Who never taught you
Death was life's reward,
But who believes in the Earth and the Sun
And a million, million light years of being.