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.
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