When the Reservoirs Run Dry

 When the Reservoirs Run Dry

(“You let our enemies trample us; we went through fire and flood, but now you have brought us to a place of safety.” Psalm 66:12)

What to do when the reservoirs run dry?
What to see when the sky has pulled away like
a yoyo on a string?
What to say when pressed for faith?
What to sing when the melodies fade?

We shall wait.
And we shall set our tables with bread
in our narrow alley.
And we shall shower rain on the scrub brush
and the listless.
And we shall not be asleep in our though the
heat lulls us.
And we shall listen to the rhythm of seeds and
seedlings.

What to do when fear is a language
adopted by masqueraded sheep?
What to feel when cattle are thin and
blame is the only offer?
What to see when seeing has been discarded
for shades of lies? Why walk the streets of
gaslighting or original sin?

I will begin again. I will sing this verse instrumentally.
I will wail. I will whisper. I will let the shorter days pass
like chaff. I will sit with you, if you ask,
as long as all I am.

Our bread will be for both and our wine
shall be for laugh or crying. When the reservoirs
run dry
we will fill our cisterns with the rains from beyond the
sky.

The Winged Rode Each Wave

 

The Winged Rode Each Wave

(“But she answered and said to Him, ‘Yes, Lord, but even the dogs under the table feed on the children’s crumbs.’” Mark 7:28)

The rains would not blow past us,
easterly and swift.
The days simply wrapped us in
bogs and mud and mist.
There were birds that pecked upon the earth,
taking their chances between squalls and raindrops
to find life where no one else looked
to feed their babies whimpering in their nests.

They would not be denied (though we humans
stayed inside). The Master of Water (seas and oceans,
lakes and rivers, clouds and rain) seemed to prevent them
from gathering a to-go meal for home.

The rains settled, dully silvered in the air.
The rains ganged up on the unsuspecting ground,
(though the snow from a week before should have
been a siren of things to come).
The puddles overflowed, the rivulets flowed from driveway
to side yard
to the burn pile from autumn awaiting the flame.

The wind rounded the corner, up and then down,
the Columbia exerting its will on congregants waving their
distended arms, a parade with nowhere to go.

But the winged rode each wave, songbirds soaring like
miniature birds of prey. The backyard was dotted
with sparrows and robins
who would not take rain or snow
as an answer
but met each moment on its own terms.