For behold, the day cometh that shall burn as an oven. . .
Malachi:4:1a KJVThe desert is not blooming. Not even the cheat grasses on higher slopes send up green stalks. The only plumes rising are dust devils. Mother wakes up crying. She is afraid of her cancer. Over breakfast the family talks of war and foreign policies. Two days ago, (or was it three?) We made music together, Miserable in the cold But harmonizing, fingering our fretboards Carefree as our music. The younger generation already knows trauma, battle, regrets of dead love. Black on blue, buzzard in the sky I know there's hope and serenity. Knowing has to be enough.
The desert shall rejoice, and blossom. . .