His joints are gnarled roots in their ancient glory
& we are the mosses that sit on his knees.
His words are raked leaves blown in autumn’s breeze;
they cling to our hair as he whispers our story.
God’s voice fills our voids, although it has dried,
his word born to carry to the Earth’s ends.
God’s breeze must ever bend for frayed lives to mend,
a hymn we can sing after too many sighs.
Twisted is this tree, though only in form:
God’s trunk is tough, his heartwood strong,
& the zephyr he sends speaks (never) wrong.
Recline on root, climb a branch, and be warmed.
From his weathered trunk to his feathered brows,
we crane our necks so our sight flashes
to where sunbeams peek from his eyelashes
& warm our small bodies through the clouds.
& still on his knees we sit, earth-bound.
Those beams of light stream down from God’s eye,
his feet in the dirt and his face where birds fly...
not just the zephyr extends Earth around.
For God’s toes burrow beneath the loam,
his branches bear the fruit of eons past,
& skies billow from his trunk’s mammoth mast.
Vast God grows, & everywhere he sows home.