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Spirits of our ancestors
gather in the mist
of my mind,
plowing furrows deeper
into the womb
of my being;
searching…seeking…squeezing
the old rugged cross…
David’s star…
see-sawing the stalwart crescent:
Rebounders of truth’s truth…
Sprits of our ancestors,
embrace my soul,
grasping rudiments
of the equinox
the ancients knew long
before the coming
of the missionaries—
missionaries—
bearing strange myths,
poisoning praises
to supreme manifestations
of God’s ever presence:
the sun… moon…stars;
collectively, the all seeing eye
fathering fertile mother earth…
Spirits of our ancestors
nestling in the womb
of my mind; gestating
and laboring—plowing furrows
deeper into my being—birthing
truth: Truth…the liberating force.
