Not all stars are white.

Some are greens that feed the herd—
birth yellows that call
bees and birds to hum,
then wither to brown,
yet still,
they feed the earth.

Not all stars are far.

Some are voices behind,
whispering, Good morning, sir,
a knife and a quiet light,
sharpening a face—
brightening a day.

Not all stars are five.

Some have fins—
tickling rivers to dance.
Some have claws,
scratching songs
from ceilings and walls–
the wild notes of life.

Fingers and hues—
not the same,
but they stitch
different,
unequal tales—
each one
a match
for the great eye.

Palm on Sunday.

The Vatican grip
never curved an African smile.

We stride out the cathedral
into fierce blue heat,

where no pew tears feet from earth,
where sun slaps backs already scarred by toil.

No holy book—
just truth leaking out of bark.
No pages, just sap.

No priest spinning fear of unseen beings—
just a tapper cracking wood,
pouring spirit into waiting hands.

We drink—
no hymns,
just breath and noise,
wind wrestling trees
till they laugh with us.

Our altar? A stump—
cradle when we fall.

White wine of the rainforest
sucked from gods’ own veins,
drowns grief faster than sermons.

The gods
scorn coins—
they implore us
to soothe the scorched soil,
to kiss the root
with white wine,
so we sprinkle.