the saint’s sword fell
in the mud, hilt first.

blade like grass reaching
up towards the almighty.
rigid & beautiful,
we grow up, and out.

the saint fell too,
buried in the forest.

dissolved & eaten,
picked at & chewed.
we end up in the bellies
of the birds in the trees.

the saint is no one, &
the sword doesn’t swing

prayer carved in the rotting handle,
oiled and smoothed by calloused palms,
all of ours, the sword & the saint rise
above all these splintered woods.