Dry Wind Prayer

At the foot of
these temples,
these edifices
arisen from the
blasted land where
soil has turned to
ash and rains have
failed for years uncounted

we confront the
obelisks of days
slipped from the
grasping hands of
dead men with
forgotten names,
wrestling with the
thoughts far too
large for our narrow
conception to frame

we squint into the hot
wind that blasts our
eyes and turns our
cheeks to bronze,
the sickness of the
land taking root in
our own flesh as
year turn their slow
cadence and the
memory of a whisper
of hope

becomes
as a talisman kept
buried, glimpsed
only at the hour
of midnight and
under the stars
upon nights when
the desperation
threatens to overwhelm
our final defenses
and leave us
insane

and we yearn to be
sated, to be content
and without our
accustomed pain
for just one blessed
turn of the wheel

but this life on the dry
land, upon this crucible
where we are rendered
and made desolate
below the angry
bronze furnace glare
of the sun,

is not
here for our comfort,
but for our edification,
our torment, at turns

our slow and arduous
sojourn from innocence
to experience.

Patrick M. Tracy
6/26/12