Let My Religion Be Wild

I pass a church on my walk home.
A fresh coat of paint covers its doors red,
its walls white.
Well-manicured people decorate the steps;
suits and dresses on well-manicured smiles.
A courtyard out back,
with hedges and mulched flower beds,
all presumptuously trimmed,
cut,
maimed,
and clipped of their abundance!
What can be learned in such suppression?
Let my religion be wild,
unkempt,
with a beard down to its knees;
let it laugh unfiltered by social niceties,
or awareness of itself,
piercing and profound,
and completely in this moment;
let its church be the night sky,
or an outstretched hand,
or you,
or me;
let it dance alone in a field in waist-high grass,
or in my living room,
or in the middle of the street,
for no one to see.