“You know, I do not care
for it when they call me
‘Holy Ghost,’ like some sort
of spook, dressed all in white,
come to haunt your conscience
and your everyday dreams.

Perhaps they liked the reference
to a dead and risen Jesus,
my place in the Trinity usurped
by one who is no more than
my equal, as if his humanity
means more than my light.

I prefer to be known as ‘spirit,’
the ‘holy’ part implied, unspoken.
I am the butterfly landing softly on
your shoulder, the baby’s laugh
as he looks into his mother’s eyes,
the warmth on your cheek
as the sun breaks through 
dense clouds. All the clichéd
yet beautiful things are 
seen for what they are when
I breathe myself into you, 
awakening what has always been —

the breath of recognition, the 
breath of inspiration. I am the
indwelling of ideas, the source
of flow, water from a well you 
sealed up long ago when you
convinced yourself it was dry.”

This draft poem was created on April 19 for the daily prompts from Miz Quickly and NaPoWriMo.