Flood waters have receded.
Dry and barren are these fields
of expectation.

My hands fly up, palms open,
fingers spread in search of some
new growing season,
some reason
for clinging to belief.

And again, monotony
of blazing mid-day sun… Faith
chokes on its own parched
tongue, now arched
toward a taste of relief.

Days lengthen like snakes stretching.
Mysterious, the shadow
of time which moves along.
Held by vast
desert, uncertainty.

Surrendered full, abandoned
to bare receptivity,
expectant, I long.