Fog

In the heat of the baking sunlight,

the force of sand-whipping winds,

thinly oxygenated high mountain air—

there is a clarity within

that holds fast. 

The elements tether hearts and minds, firmly

to the crusted fissured landscape, drawing

the last two percent of moisture from our pores. 

The penitentes drag weighted crosses

on bloodied knees

baring sweated brows and

bulging veined arms. 

Flies hover, bite and amass

on wounded backs of man,

living off the pores of sweat and stink

that feed them well. 

Our plights, with which we wrestle,

small perhaps, yet immense,

draw us deeply within,

holding us down on bending knees—

with humility, molding us into our shadowed form

whether through mortification of the flesh

or by weathering the environmental dearths

until releasing us—

when obscurity becomes bright with clarity

and the heart sings with light.

Kat

3 October 2016