dust

July 23, 2013

thorns and thistles at my ankles
sweat beading my brow
and this soil
just
won’t
turn
over.

futility is an untilled field
in the dusty heat of summer
when the planting season was missed
and the only chance for survival
is a bitter battle against
the cursed earth.

my own fault.
my own fault.
not the woman.
not the snake.
mine.
i must own this.

and so i fight the earth,
tearing at the hill with
stone and stick and bloody hands
and only the hope that these few drops
sweat and blood
mingled with mud
may yet produce life.

there is a promise coming.
until He comes, i toil.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: