He plays, naked, upon the field
On a midsummer Sunday morning
the Christ-child, or child-man
Clothed in the warbled hymns and tears of His people
In gratitude.
He dwells at home with beat of butterfly wing and wind of bird
Races the doe and buck and fawn,
Carousing with Fox and Coyote, past placid cows who long have known His name.
He revels in the dirt-mystery of the world He made
Bathing in the stream that can still be found flowing over, around and through the hues of stained glass window and worn pew
And He lets me see him there
Hold Fast 
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