The Wadi

As veiled ones cry out in the desert,
search the walls of the canyon inclines,
do they see in the death all around them,
the longing of well hidden signs?
The red rusted side of the iron,
the green glow of coppery ruth,
while the voice of a whispering wadi,
gives hints of a soft echoed truth.
The clefts in the rock lift the music,
join their tenor to vein fissured bass,
while the ribs of burned brown saguaro,
like tree rings, still murmur of grace.
Once the streams sang out in the Negev.
Torrents swirled and eddied and flowed.
Deep pools of refreshment once lingered,
where the weald and woodland would grow.
But now in the baked barren desert,
when it seems that all has gone dry,
the whispering words of the wadi
cry out that we don’t have to die.
For there comes a deluge to the desert,
springs again will cascade and renew.
Tears that once coursed down a mountain,
now gather in life giving dew.
Then the wadi will strain to contain it,
and the trees will all clap their hands.
The cacti will laugh their good fortune,
as the waters stream out on the sand.