Can you dim the moon?
With a single feather
to cool down the coal under?
A path shines bright
and your words, as loud
as you shout, fescue
tugging at our tired feet,
the different hues of skin
patterned in paper cuts.
These hot rocks were once
foreground to caves made
by sea spells cast.
These dunes lay deep
not under the red heat,
but spiritual swimmers.
We moved. The seasons.
The communal effort.
The land both bare and vast.
We came to the rescue
of kings at their wits,
villages with their vein cut,
witnessed the great fall
as prayers rocked back and forth
from every household.
Are we soft?  The meek?
A validation of divine
existence after all?