The World Alive

The sun sets over

Cactus ribs sharp with shadow

Arms lifted in praise.

The sky is smeared

With gleams of gold and russet;

God’s spilled paint palette.

The earth is rust-red,

As though Abel’s blood cries out.

It runs with the rain.

Round nubs of mountain,

Spines straining under silty skin,

Every stone a cell.

If we are silent, the rocks

In the desert will cry out.

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