First Sunday of Advent


The grit in the mouth
from desert dust.
Dirt in the spit
and the grind on the teeth.
This is what hope tastes like
after the stories have been told
once too often.
Past the exhaustion of longing
there is now only irritation
and anger
and pain.

How long?

The wind snaps over the sands
scattering the sheep over the rocks.
I squint, and lean into the sting

This entry was posted by Richard Beck. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply