Faith in the Desert
I.
Can you hear the cardinal sing?
Soon it will rain
and the desert will transform
beyond the visible,
something other, its voice
encoded in scent, sage brush,
arroweed, honey suckle.
The fragile voice of God,
not the figure of Sunday School,
but the living, breathing
God who inhabits
the world, breathes life
into matter, thunders
in September storm clouds.
So much unseen, a mystery
beneath the surface
of things, hidden
but not invisible, waiting
for the cardinal to sing,
the way clouds appear, suddenly,
as if from nowhere.
II.
Why not believe
in a God-besotted world?
Why not inhale
the life-affirming scents
of a desert rain
and know the mystery
can penetrate skin?
Why not worship
at the foot of a saguaro
that has lived
more years than we will see,
has taken root in forsaken soil
and grown to touch sky,
has defied reason?
Why not praise
that which we do not comprehend,
the eternity of moving
water carving a canyon,
the raven's flight
as we walk among
river stones, our feet wet?
III.
So little do we feel,
allow to seep
beneath our skin, the rational
mind a fine gate-keeper
but a failed visionary,
only the body knows
the rhythms of seasons.
Rain and sun, dark clouds
open to rainbows, and yes,
the brain can explain,
but the imagination can know,
be open to what is unseen,
allow the irrational proposition
that rain feeds the soul.
The cardinal sings, offers
its voice to the chorus
of swallows, doves, and thunder,
opens the flesh
to something other, some
deeper meaning,
a life beyond the mind.
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