by Phoebe Anthus
As ceaseless as the wind whistling through the wire,
day unto day we’ve poured out speech,
wells of words taking the wings of the morning.
We have strained our necks with
the impossible endeavor
to somehow speak the brokenness away.
Hoped that in time a full disclosure
would cleanse us from all unrighteousness.
Our eyes are heavy with the sky,
weary of watching the hills
from whence our help comes.
Weary of demands.
The birds this morning,
offered to wing
our tongues, instead of our words,
up to the hills.
We are without any praying,
but the heavens declare,
Their voice goes to the ends of earth.
Behold, O Lord, you know it altogether.
The whistling wind divides
even the joints from the marrow
and before him nothing is hidden.
We are without praying
but desire for Him grows green.
Spreads from our aching mouths
up through the hair,
and still we wait for him.
The clouds, thick with absence
teach spines to sing.
Mercy is the first note
to echo in the empty green where words
had hitherto filled tight the space.
Our eyes have seen their wings, black
over the hills writing,
and through the thick air,
resting soft their song upon our restless hearts.
The silence settled,
the weight too much to bear
for our eyes were already heavy with the sky,
weary with words we could not say.
Artwork by James Weaver