From a Dry Land

Sunrise from On High
(Luke 1:78)

In the morning shadow of the peak,
basalt lies dark on the slope, the earth barren:
only dust, sand, the scraggy creosote.

The sun rises above the crest- the mountain
suddenly enveloped by blinding radiance-
all faults obscured by the blaze of light.

El Sali: My Rock
(Psalms 48:3)

Old Blackie rises, boulder strewn,
each pocket of stone, each hollow
and crevice-a perch for raven,
cranny for lizard, for jackrabbits a warren,
harbor for coyote-sheltering all from winter’s wind.

Firstborn from the Dead:
(Revelation 1:5)

In bitter winds
the first green
buds on almond branches

You Can See God Going to the Islands

Where else but walking on sand and water
the last splinter of perfection, the crescent
edge of Bunut Bay, flip-flops in hand?

Or in Bolivia waiting patiently on the boardwalk
at Calacala, to see the paintings on the rising rocks,
one white llama surrounded by the red herds?

Farther South the next week, among chinstrap penguins,
stepping gingerly over the clutches tucked in the rocks.
He smiles as they dive, bodies suddenly lissome, into the sea.

A day or two in Turkey visiting the springs at Pamukkale,
resting his feet in the thermal pools, touring the ruins and
recollecting the pillared architecture of Rome.

Maybe then, a few stops to admire the streaked and spotted
gazelle, giraffe, hyena and the scrawny cattle of the savanna;
to wade the Nile winding its way across the continent.

No place but then to return to the hillside gardens,
to inhale the once familiar scent of night air in Jerusalem,
the first almonds hastening to bloom.

Hymn from the Mojave

Praise be for desert jackrabbits
raising black tipped young
among boulders and creosote.

Glory for the tortoise
all leather and claw-
for rattlesnake,
fang, scale, and buzz,

for the horned toad in sun
atop his barren hill
and geckos exploding
from the sand at footfall.

Praise be for black rock
and raven in a landscape of brown.
For mountains
rising above valleys of dust,

for dry washes and
the smooth edges of rocks
a certain testament to rain.

Singing the Old Songs

Mojave Desert

On television, the Pope winds through Poland.
Lining the street, the people sing hymns and spirituals
familiar in any language. The songs, my grandmother
hummed in her Hoosier kitchen as she pressed
leaves & holly into springerlees’ thick pale dough.

I bake bread and biscotti and there is no one alive
who can recall the brot her grandmother
once had kneaded. Still, these are her hymns
I sing softly in my borrowed kitchen and her
blue pottery on the counter, farther from home than I.