The desert shall rejoice and blossom.
We have put her to hard labor,
taking her jewels, stripping her naked,
enslaving her under our callous appetite.
She mourns in drought, swoons with fever,
drops her glaciers like glass fallen and shattered.
She too is on this faltering journey toward the Promise.
She too longs for vision long denied.
Yet she will not withhold. She will provide.
For she too is Word made flesh.
In the joy of her Maker,
exultant in the presence of the Great Love,
she will flourish, as grace does.
Already the pines reach down, strong and confident,
the beetle priests enter their secret sanctuary,
every pilgrim bird, every angel fungus
loves their song of glory and is ready to burst forth.
Even deserts that have never known luxury
wait, debutantes, ready, unafraid.
No one has more hope than earth herself.
She will love us through this.
A perfect day,
perhaps not today or tomorrow
but in Earth’s time, soon.
Ample sun and rain,
the breeze of Love breathing its joy,
and every species
giving and receiving.