Sometimes

romping words tumble and giggle

and fill the atmosphere with wonder

and weightless joy;

everything sings

and the chorus is easy to join.

 

Other times

(like now

and yesterday

and yesterday’s yesterday)

a dry brittleness permeates

even the bones

and breath is heavy as lead.

 

Yet

there is a beauty

in the blunt, black fingers of the dead giraffe thorn

that claw at the cold grey heavens.

There is sanctuary

in the still vastness of winter veld.

Though the sky is rigid

and the ground impenetrable,

there is quiet life

in the space between

earth and firmament.

 

There, in poverty, I discover my heart

and hold the hand of God.