Not joyful for the rains have claimed many spring lambs.
Some those his own reddened hands helped birth.
His trembling legs hold him up over the craggy grassy mound.
He wishes to be melted into the sun, a divine departure warm and illuminating.
His breath is divided by his grief and his hopes, this humble sheep herder.
God pats his head and pins and needles touch his skull like sweet ants comforting him.
To the river he goes and from it he drinks and fills his canteen with this water that is truly silence.
Across the paddocks his hopeful eyes scan at the animals that sustain his life and his love of all things living.
God pats his head and whispers subtle like " This earth shall claim your hardened limbs, then you shall truly dance."
A distant hill caught the light of clouds opening. And contentment settled on him like a season.
Nenhum comentário:
Postar um comentário