A voice promises water and grazing rights, in the end,
after westward expansion, an opening to land without end.

In the hills, Philistines, Indians, Turks, trogs, grass, oil,
silver, gold.  A life strapped, swindled from start to end.

Wind howls overhead like fire.  Among the boulders, wild
demands attack the backs of their prey, a furious end.

The shepherd's rod and staff turn into cudgels.  This
valley will be lonely; loneliness can serve its own end.

Suddenly in the path, a table.  Bread, I command.  It appears.
I weep, I'm so hungry, and food extends to the table's end.

How sweet the hand that presses a balm to my forehead!
How cool that hand!  My hot, narrow misery ends.

On my left hand walks goodness; on my right, mercy.
I shall not want, my cup, my borders run over without end.

 
We get a chance to see if the sun is round or square.
Like the lights were on but no one was home,
between you and me and the gate post.
The Johnsons would have said, keep the change.

We sit on a bench, in the shade,
watching every damn fool get by, every
rot gut no good account high mucky muck
who has something useless, out loud, to say.

We're almost cheery at separations
and failures, when the barometer falls
and the weather can step in and save us,
when whatever it is passes over the house.

© 2004 by Sharon Chmielarz. All rights reserved.