my hands scratch at the dust,
this crumbling ground.
they feel their way around this void,
try to fathom it, to make sense of it.
I dig in desperation
to work out what we are doing here
in the dust, when we are meant to be
sons and daughters.
but in the desert we need you,
we search for you,
because you must be even here.
and only then do I see it;
a curling stem,
the frailest shoot,
and I am done with my tears,
I am done with my rage,
because you are here,
even here, and your
green voice of hope
whispers,
against the dust,
the noise, this unchanging horizon.
elisabeth pike 