Saturday, July 18, 2020

The Wild Places











Last week, as I was working my way through a box of old papers, notes, and clippings, I came across a single sheet torn from a journal, dated almost exactly 23 years ago.  We were camping with our four daughters, driving endless hours on a state highway. Stunned by what was before me, I jotted down my thoughts, not imagining I’d find these words again someday.

                                            

                         Montana 7-14-1997

In this desolate land
  of endless miles of scrub grass,
           a patchwork of dust and rocks,
the shadows of clouds
                  passing overhead.
Hill after hill, a barren place,
the only signs of life
   are fences of barbed wire,
lining the asphalt two-lane.
                         No speed limit.
And suddenly,
           from a far-off view,
a line of green drawn erratically 
    as by the hand of a two year old.
There is no question 
            where the water is.
The trees flourish 
with a sharp contrast of color
                     in a place so pale.
Should not our lives too
    point the way to hope
like trees planted 
              by rivers of water,
    laughing and singing 
       and clapping their hands?
A mirage does not 
                  produce life
     visible from miles around.
Hope does.

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