The Nomads



We are seeds that don’t know where to settle. We are the nomads.

My God, we are toiling. We are dusty-footed.


To where have we been walking all this time, the earth,

  the horizon receding?


Guide us as You do the birds and the spiders and the dandelion fluff

   that know their homes.


We will not be the beetle that flees up and across the prayer house wall.

We will not run beneath the skirts of disgusted women.


How many us are a woman with a broom in her hand?

How many of us are watching the beetle?


If mouths feel stuffed with wool before death, we must be dying soon.

Give us water or take us into the sea.




Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s