Dry.
Coughing as I breathe in, chest wheezing, this dusty cloud kicks up when I walk.
When I talk, words fall to the ground without sound.
Cracks invading the pavement, waiting for someone tall to step wrong and fall. Someone saw rain in the distance, just one instance, but that was years ago.
For now, nothing grows. And so, nothing sows. The last leaves turned to ash. Out of resource, out of cash. It happened so fast, before we realized we were empty. The wind blows over another dried up, used to be, has been but isn’t now.
For a split second, seems to bow on purpose, then falls.
Smashing into a million pieces in these parched halls. The air so dry it’s impossible to sweat – impossible to shed a tear, for fear of losing the last drops of moisture we assume are somewhere deep inside. We’ve tried to hide. We’ve lied to hide. Cause when it’s gone, it’s gone.
Or so we’ve heard. Not another word. After all, we’ll get by. We just need to try. Try harder. To really mean it this time.
Sunlight breaks, the cushion shakes and reveals the dust we’ve been breathing. Our lungs as thirsty as our throats, debris forming coats. A trembling unsettles our dust. Frightened, but we must, respond.
The room is shaking, the ground quaking, the clouds fill the sky and darken brightly.
Not a drip. Not a trickle or a stream. But all in one moment it happens.
Dams break, waves overtake, water makes and snakes its’ way, soaking the day, washing away any traces of ash and dust. Respond we must, gasping for air and at the same time sinking without a care.
The pipes have burst, rushing like floods from somewhere unseen. More like a geyser, like the spring from which all springs are sprung – filling our lungs and drowning out all remnants of thirst.
To a land that was cursed – healing and life, New Life. A Spirit poured out, and all creation shouts “Great is the Lamb that was slain!” “Great is His Name!” The Spirit that came, as God promised it would.
See His blood on the wood…
We receive and are never the same.
Isaiah 44:3
words from wick 