The ancients knew
how spirits hide
and thrived amongst
all living things;
the rushing stream
the just threshed wheat,
the sky, the sand
and every tree.

Cognizant spirit
in knotty oak
residing far beyond
the Roman’s scope;
possessed of knowledge
wise and terrible,
chose endurance
of dull blade’s cut
and stripping bark.

Knowing he would be the one
to touch a god
and hasten his journey
back to Heaven;
and when he cried
for unearthly father
would wrap him in
his sinewy arms
whisper his secrets
and carry Him home.

A spirit doesn’t cry
but neither would he let
divinity die alone
for the unwise choices
of a god made mortal
to shoulder the sins
of unholy hoards.

He blew in the ear
of the grass, the mud,
the scratchy shroud,
the boulder, cave
the ground
from which
the man would rise
to fulfill the promise
the spirits knew
He could not deny.

A spirit doesn’t cry,
but from the sky
a kindred being
let drops of dew
fall down
unto the parched,
red clay,
in memory of
that faithful day
when everything changed,
but remained the same.