in a field walks a god, collecting twigs for fire, skin-kissed with sun. sick of crosses, tired of resurrections, the word made flesh now a plague of fearful hearts. god warms hands before the fire and smiles in the glow, looks to the heavens and whispers an unheard prayer. the prodigal son made another home, and wished his father well. water now, cupped in hands, the flaming sword of eden god takes with gentle palms, the cherub collapses to knees, worn from the bottomless eons, and looks up with new eyes before the face of a child, who dawns the great secret and walks away.