Tribulation

The old moon

she became invisible during the day

the brutal sun, always pushing her back

she made her way in two seasons

between two forks of the road in the desert

days of cold winds

of hot sandstorm gusts

and her children were rocks

stone dumb, unmoved by the north wind

A life of toil and famine ensued

the windswept plains

her personal prison

not much grew there

dirt…

dirt found in pores and clothes

clinging onto furniture

manifesting to where

even the air was clay-colored

Across the desert, she walked

her feet warped

her celestial place

long vacant

And as she called to her four stones

the uncaring siblings

self-centered brats

they would not toil against the wind

even as it flung snow and starvation

in their mother’s face

her gnarled hands gripping her worn bag

her small blue pocketbook agape

to the cruel air

tiny trinkets scattering in the angry storm

These minute treasures picked up

by the desert grasses

and the desert plants slid the trinkets

onto their slender stalks

so green in the contrast to dust

a spot in the desert

that was unlike the woman

who gazed into the western sky

Someday, long after the scribes have written

plastic words in the sand

she will bolt, skyward bound

once again to cast glimmer

into the night