We’re still visiting churches in our town of Kerrville. And I still take my quirky little poetry notes. I think this poem came from a homily by Eric Rhoda at First Presbyterian. If I were more patient, this is another one I would have submitted to Image Journal or someplace similar.
Instead, I’m submitting it to HighCallingBlogs.com weekly Random Acts of Poetry.
And please, God, send some rain to Texas!
The Garden in Drought
Annuals explode orange and yellow
petals, springing up out of mass-
packaged manure compost and mulch,
watered, loved, weeded, and eaten
one night by scrawny white-tailed
yard rats. So we content ourselves
with less flashy flora. Plant bitter
herbs, pungent rosemary, sweet
basil. Small doses grow slow, but
the earth’s best beauty endures
even when subtle tastes are lost
on calloused tongues. Stark life
is life unadorned, and passion
doesn’t shout amen or raise hands.
We’re not lukewarm. We’re salt. Our faith
is breath and heartbeat. Our cups
run over, but they’re still just cups.
Image by José Bernal, Drought in Paradise, 1974. Used with permission of his son.