The Wilderness:
Written in summer 2020, but finished October 26, 2020
Crack, bellowed the thunder, But the dry ground gave no reply. The withered herbs retreated in their chasms, Threatening to rend the shades of Sheol, Absorbing the lot of the Dead, Clenching all control from moisture's caress. Thirsty rock called unto sand, and sand echoed rock Only. Over the turbulent land passed the restless wind. Drip, heard the desert finch, drop, Drop everything, run. Run out into the wet, the water, Water the ground with your tears. Maybe then roots will grow, And sorrow end, And rain come. Blinding, blinding. What is that light, the light over the mountains? It pierces me; I cannot sleep, I cannot look. My self, my self, look no more to the East; I think it is fire Coming. Howl, howl, howl. The dogs beg for bread, For life, for love, For life, That they receive from the master's hand. I carry nothing, have nothing, am nothing. Am I a dog, or less than one? I am. I see rocks spread out on the sand And a parapet to the sky And a map of fiefdoms, I think, But no kings. I am no king; I can walk no farther, But only fall Down, down, down Onto my knees And lisp for breath. How long can a life last In this desert? The frail skeletons around me whisper, Not long, but longer— Join us, us, our living death. I sink deeper into the bleeding gravel Beside the rats, the wreath, the adder. Perhaps I'll find warmth here Like them. I blister. The wind lashes my fading life, Burning, burning A parched throat and weeping eyes. Where shall I escape that glaring whiteness? It must be a reflection Of clouds in the sky Or the glassy path— A mirage only, Of three figures on the road. But One approaches, offering His hand. I know not if He moved or I; It seemed less a choice than a homecoming. But against my ruins, He shored the sand, And caused these riven ashes to stand.