The Valley of Dry Bones

I know this girl who has been rung hard
and left to dry on a line out back
and more than a few days have passed
with her hanging there
There are tatters at the end of her shirtsleeves
and her pant cuffs are as stiff as death
There has been no rain for months and yet
her listless flower head still lifts sheepishly every morning
looking for the sun

It is Love that longs to cut her from that noose
and have her fall, bones and all
to the dirt below
where the dust would fly and blind and choke
and then settle
down within the crevices cracked and brittle

I have heard of this valley of bones
that is dry as death and
where shadows creep among the once living
this place echoes empty
with the unheard cries of brokenness
no one lives in this place where
the thick black waves rise up from the dirt
painting thick mirages of seas long Dead

If only a wind would blow across this barren hole
where the forgotten lie in one big hopeless heap
from four corners a holy breath could whisper
and there would be a mighty clanking of
bones brought up from the nothingness
That would be a mighty day
if those dry bones rose up
and danced back home