We are all in the sad predicament
Of Lot’s wife
Wanting the tents of Babylon
And the flourishing of
Gold in our paltry hands
Knowing that right before
Our measuring eyes
Like summer figs ripening
In our mouths
The fruits of peace and plenty
Wave in the breeze…
Oh but the salt of unbelief stiffens and
Scales as fish-fins the hungry
Yet mendicant pupil;
And away we walk from
The Water
We are parched for,
Trusting the world’s ponds
While cool rivers ripple only
A look in the other direction.
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