And so you cry out in the wilderness,
engulfed by silences so thick,
you believe you must drown.
And so you cry out, waiting for - what?
The barely perceptible change
of wave embracing object?
The removal of the final veil?
The eventual return of vices long cherished,
their absence mourned,
or the redemptive pungency of wine?

For now
the smell of grasshopper days must wait,
gravid with patience.
And mud.
Here are the roots of the tree, dry,
exposed upon winter's riverbank, parched
and waiting.

And so you cry out, waiting
for proof
or substance,
an echo, a dead stop. Here is
boats' bottom, the boundary, the end.
And so you cry out, "The glass must be empty."
This particular vacancy exquisite labyrinth,
patient mandala of season.

And so you wake up
from long sleep, disoriented and frightened
under the whispered benediction
of clouds swollen
with rivers.

Deluge smoothes first cautious fingertip
across waiting floodplain; sky
drags a serpentine tongue
across the belly of the earth,
leaving behind only a scar
which heals too quickly.

It is finally spring.
And so you cry out.
And so.

 
     

 

 

 "Deluge" © 2002 by EA Lynch
 
     
 

Original Graphic, "Weary" © 2002 by EA Lynch
 

 

     
 

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