Sunday, January 18, 2015

The water of anticipation

He still remembers a time
when it was not desert,
not locusts and honey. But
the memory is fading,
blurring around breaking
edges where real meets

his mother’s touch, soft
voice, his father’s arm
to lean on, the rabbi’s
prayer, men reading
from the scrolls
of parchment, yellow
and brittle

he walked into the desert,
his parents’ eyes on his back,
his tangled hair; he has not
seen them since but
the longing is paired
with contentment, often

he knows his place, what
he is to do, to say, and so he
begins to talk to rocks and
bees and snakes and scorpions
and birds, anything that moves,
at first, until one or two hear
and remain, then the others

after the words come
the words with water, standing
in the river, the one they crossed
for the promise. He watches
the crowds as he talks,

looking, waiting,

Photograph by Lila Frerichs via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

1 comment:

Mary Sayler said...

Glynn, I love this! Your work is always interesting, helpful, and inspiring to read, but this poem is exceptional.