Sunday, May 4, 2014

Exodus 16: In Writing

“Who would give our death by the hand of God in Egypt, as we sat by pots of flesh, and ate bread to our fill? 
You took us out to this wilderness to kill this multitude with hunger!"

Just once
to hold your hand
hard and crushing
and swoon to sleep

Rather than stand
wilderness surround
starved for sight
a gaping hole

Breathing to wing-beats
trapped in my fingers
the dew
that melts in my hand

Never to have
never to hold
stench of  heaped hopes
before the final ingathering

I dream of full-bellied pots
puffing peace
fleshy and full
firm to the touch

rather than leaping at winds
as they fling past
knowing the wings that bear me
can leave me

the unrelenting question
day to day
month to month
year to year
Will you be here?

Measured to the soul
Always wanting
 I search for you in distant clouds
a desert of longing

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