Wednesday, July 13, 2011



it was not the Seasons he worshipped—
and no prayers for Justice or Law or Peace—
although he toyed with the lure of still water

but it may have been the changing of seasons—
that another season was coming—springing
forth as if from his thoughts or his head

things blossoming to be plucked
things becoming again to be consumed
because we trust in that thing coming next—

he pretended to have the Faith of a farmer
but walked with the doubt of a desert dweller—           
nomad among migrant workers pausing to look

as he cut through the billowing fields
their faces the color of a sandstorm—
their hands and knees planted in the soil

and this was all a dream—or a lie—
the truth remained buried in him
not yet come to fruit—nothing to harvest—

the seed of him unknown to their Judgment
hiding beneath the surface—denied the Sunlight—
shaken by the rumble of arid Thunder and Lightning

* -----. (2008, September). horae. English Journal, 98(1), 15.

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