She closed her eyes and faith
fell into her hands.
It was a glistening firefly flower;
Tiny, winged, scalloped petals the color of honey butter;
sticky with unimaginable wisdom.
It sang to her;
That universal hum – the sound of God.
We are Holy Beings;
made of star-dust and ash;
rooted only temporarily to a place
or each other.
In the dream-time,
the condor comes and She holds her
in a silent sermon
until she doesn’t.
A different offering
Another form . . .
Another kind of dying.
She wakes wiser;
with a new knowing:
All the power,
All the faith
isn’t in the spine of the plant
but, in its crowning beauty.
What seems new
is old . . .
And faith forms in her tiny seed.