The sun explodes and the grass crackles and I don’t know how much longer this can go on.
I walk among the flowers, the ones that I planted during the eternally long spring
when all was melting and swelling and hopeful,
and I feel a quickening.
A hint of desperateness begins to pulse within my veins and the image of a desert child falls into my lap. The child, whose clothes drape and fall across lines of bone and sinew, is quiet.
But her eyes speak, deep wells of color calling to the same.
Her crumpled shoulders bear the weight of a hundred summer suns
And, heavier still, the burden of unrequited hope.
I finger the leaves of the morning glory, the one that trumpets blue and purple hallelujahs at dawn
And the heart shaped foliage recoils at my touch, the weight of my hand oppressive.
No living thing seems able to regain its right posture once I pass by.
How can one be like That tree?
The one by the stream.
The one that prospers.
The one that lives.
I look at the garden my husband planted.
There are mounds of compost and manure encircling every plant, every root
and I marvel that this dirt, composed of things that are dying, is the bridge to what lives.
If that is so, that in the dying, there is life
What do I do with that desert child?
What must die so that she can live?
If the weight of my hand is oppressive and things crackle under my feet, then
We are doomed.
I sink to my knees, pawing at the ground.
Surely there is water somewhere deep.
Linking up with Emily