Today, wildfire smoke
makes morning light feel old,
weighs the air
with a thousand deaths,
a thousand more.
Today the stream bed is dry,
choked with fallen leaves,
earth cracked deep with thirst.
Dust rises beneath my feet,
settles, coats my skin.
Today grasshoppers rise
by the many, rise
like distracted prayers,
leaping from trail
to tangled underbrush,
snapping open dark wings
veined with gold
then gone
their mystery
defying gravity
rising through smoke
blessing the dust.
The featured image is courtesy of Hamish Weir.
Amy Malskeit, a columnist for Cultivating Magazine, holds an MA in creative writing from Lancaster University in England. Her poetry and creative nonfiction explore questions about God, faith, and the soul, letting these refract through the small moments in her life.
She lives in the foothills outside Denver where she plants her garden and makes her home with her husband, two children and a sassy Tibetan Terrier. When she’s not reading or writing, she enjoys laughing with her family, finding ways to swim in an ocean, and nurturing ways of living creatively.
Amy, what a joy to see how your creative life is flourishing! I remember you with great affection.
Amy,
this is wonderful word craft… born, clearly, of your having given yourself to gaze at hard times… while still trusting His grace and holding to His hand.
Respectfully,
Denise
@Luci, what a delight to find you here. I am so thankful for your encouragement. You have been a conduit for Tov in my life. With much affection, Amy
@Denise, thank you for this reflection.