Upon the Feast of Stephen

When the desert steppe bleaches plastic sacks
Into gossamer shreds of elven weft
And salt tears follow home the saline tracks
Of ancient lakes and marches now bereft,
I am inclined to doubt the path revealed
When in that bourbon, velvet voice you said
My name, called me "beloved," and healed
All scars, the sorry wounds my childhood bred.
My Southern comfort, heart honed by care,
Hard heat-seeking words made these eyes anew
And proved what fire a fearless man can bear
For we are more than polished bone and sinew.
I still feast upon your desire of heaven.
There is no despair your trueness cannot leaven.

On Recent Fires