Tuesday, October 4, 2011

Clouds are not Spheres

or, Shade over Phoenix
Mark Miner

Low line of flat gray,
ruler-sharp below,
on top so torn and ragged you could weep;
mountains of water
hang in the air
over mountains of stone
and drift
rudderless and driven,
kneaded, rolled and roiled
on God's breath,
until they fall,
dropwise, draining,
leaking out on the valley of dry bones.

Son of Man, can these bones live?
O Lord, You know.

1 comment:

Ruthie said...

This is a beautiful poem! It was great to meet you too, albeit briefly. Hope the child manipulation is proceeding according. :D God bless.