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
and tell them how you drink
a 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 believed in the earth
and the sun
and a million, million light years
of being.
''Catechism for a Witch's Child'' by J.L. Stanley
I read this on
the lovely Sea Angels blog and had to stifle a sob that leapt into my throat. The power of simple words strung together astounds me. The tenderness of the human heart is so profound and poignant.
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