The dead are piling up at the low end of the scale.
Weighed down the golden cups forged to perfection in the fires of the Book of Revelation.
The soldiers are collecting their pay under the scorched mangroves.
A mother is carrying her dead child in empty arms.
A weaver in Benares is speaking day and night to his god, without a reply.
Under densely packed snow in the woods outside Kiruna: a field mouse like Lazarus in his grave.
Around the lean neck of the undertaker's daughter, the delicate weight of a golden cross on a chain.
On an afternoon in the same room the widower with a bent head closes his eyes.
In a church in El Paso a ninety three year old preacher is quoting Jesus to the multitudes, and some feel their burdens lifted.
Things small enough to matter.
I need to read of hope. I need to know it is an attainable place, like Spain, or Texas....big like Texas and easy to find.
ReplyDeleteHm... hope is in short supply these days.
Deletecollection?
ReplyDeleteThe atmosphere here feels static and vibrant simultaneously, as in high noon in a Western film and waiting for the gunman to see each other as if down the long stem of a reversed telescope. I am among those who feel the burden lifted with prayer, who believe it still adds a degree of hope which balances the despair, who feel that hearing the words is not necessary.
Sighs too deep for words - that sort of thing?
DeleteI don't know how to pray, Susan. I have often asked God to teach me how to pray. Wait... is that a prayer?
Deleteyour voice trolls through history lately, not minding the rules of time. it is a curious (and exciting) thing to witness.
ReplyDeletei laugh at annie's comment, not that it is funny, but that she takes something so painful and makes it sweet.
xo
erin
Well my own sliver of time has felt a bit cramped lately. History is more spacious, if you don't mind all the dead bodies.
Delete