Barren Wastes

The sun baked clay,
Begging for moisture,
Cracking from exhaustion,
Desolate for miles.

But to taste the sweet nectar,
To relieve the desiccation,
To alleviate the pounding,
Splitting skin.

The azure sky defies her,
Reduces her to dust,
Exposes her weakness,
Composes her crevices.

No amount of tears can sate her thirst,
No mere drizzle will suffice,
The burning sands,
Need satisfaction.

If only for the rains,
The wilted bramble cries aloud,
“Temptation, drench my soul!
For my body is without!”

When morning finds the earth,
The barrens drier still,
The scorched grasses depleted yet,
The clay defeated once again.

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The Mountain’s Birth

A mighty crash,
envelops all, encompasses the earth.
Two continents, whose paths now crossed,
splash their limestone shells
upon the violet skies.
No cloud is safe
from the piercing razor’s edge,
found within their movements.
The momentum that has shaped us,
will not be halted so easily.

Direct, yet crass, the jagged stones emerge.
Toppling life,
upending peace, their tusks of marble
hewn across what once was
rolling prairie wheat,
a pasture, lonely, solemn, sweet.
Nature seems distraught,
for they’ve disturbed the weary
whispering willows, thrust into the atmosphere
despite protestations.

But not through time,
for timely measurements should all but cease
the movements of the granite beast.
When witnessed by the lonely hermit,
standing on his lonely beach,
the image freezes,
the journey seems complete.
If only he could comprehend,
that God herself has colored this,
the lavish canvas he calls Mountain.