I refuse
The version of you
That gives a
Star-Spangled Banner
To some so they
Can burn down
Native villages
And clear away
Ancient forests
In order to build
Their city on a hill
And pour concrete
All over the land
So that no heresy
Can bubble up from
The earth which has
Been tightly sealed;
Plants can grow in
Their proper place
But only in an orderly
Way that doesn’t look
Like too much work
That would negatively
Impact the resale value
Of each home; you refuse
To be domesticated so
You cast seeds everywhere
Like a reckless sower,
Not painting between the
Lines like we asked you
But putting chamomile
In sidewalk cracks and
Oozing green even in
Places where sunlight
Hardly shines and there
Is but a trace of dirt.
I want to see
The version of you
That grows outside
Of our civilization,
The you at home
Among the wild things
Where strange berries
Open portals or strike
You dead and there’s
No guarantee which
Outcome when you
Pick them from plants
That grow in the shadows
Of giant trees in deep
Gullies where sunlight
Barely breaks through.
I want the God
In the gully who
Lives in grandmother
Trees that have not
Been threatened by
Realtors since there’s
No way to develop land
Where few humans
Would even dare
To walk much less
Build an altar since
The rain will come
And wash it away
Anyway and the mud
Might swallow your
Sandals and the
Ground is surely
Teeming with snakes
And every space
Between leaves is
Spiderwebbed and
Simply sitting on the
Ground without touching
Any leaves or any
Visible bugs creates
Itching all over your
Body; I relish that itch
And the sweat that
Happens even in
A place without sun
And the stains that
Cannot be washed
Afterwards; I want
The God who lives
In that place who
Doesn’t give me words
But vague impressions
Of bears and wolves
When I close my eyes;
And as much as I
Want to start a new
Religion and turn
Every sacred pile
Of leaves into answers,
You refuse to let me;
You will not tell me
Plainly what I am
To do right now;
You will not give
Me words that spread
Fires to clear away
All the confusion and
Leave only the
Essential plants;
Perhaps nothing
Is inessential to you
And you love even
Trees that fell many
Years before and still
Shoot green into
Their branches since
Some root somewhere
Still can drink your rain;
You will not tell the
Spiders to stop building
Webs so that I have
An easy path to walk,
But I will keep stumbling
And begging the pardon
Of every tree I grab
And asking the elders
To let me see their
Thoughts on the history
They have watched
Unfold, knowing that
There will probably
Never be words but
You embrace me when
I bury my face in the
Bark of trees that
Refuse to show me
Your secrets too
Quickly so I will
Keep listening.
Morgan Guyton is a pastoral counselor in Williamsburg, VA. He blogs at patheos.com/blogs/mercynotsacrifice. He wrote a book called How Jesus Saves The World From Us (WJK, 2016).
