Saturday, April 4, 2015



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 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 believed in the earth and in the sun, and a million, million light years of being.

Reprinted from Church of the Iron Oak.
By J.L.Stanley

Image: La Couture Amore

Southern Hemisphere Pagan

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