He's Coming

He's coming.
Splashing through the hills
like muddy waters parting
peace stepping lightly from clouds
like sunlit rain
falling on the thorns and the flowers;
He's passing through the thickets
and every bramble that catches his ankle
is an old woman touching his cloak
and he bleeds out a smile and a blessing
until there's enough blood
to run down in rivulets like the wind
through the leaves
as I sit in the trees, absorbed
and ready to receive him.