You didn’t believe them,
Though they told you ahead of time,

And now you squint into the
dust blown by the wind,
Grit in your mouth
Scooped out of hope.

If you reach back,
Far behind you,
To when there was fruit,
To when there were seeds,
And it was not this dust bowl,

You can almost will your past
Into the present,
Juice of pears and peaches
Returning to parched lips
That have not tasted this sweetness in eons.

You sift the bone dry sand
Through your listless fingers.
You only carry the memory
Of trees, now,
Of youth, of the color green,
Healing and fresh.

You know, deeply,
There is no turning back.
You squint into the dust
Blown by the wind,
Waiting for The Maker. •