Make Way
Picture a desert of rock, not dunes,
hot wind through the leaves
of a lone acacia tree
standing like a signpost in the distance.
The grade grows steep
as the valleys deepen. Boulders
big enough to cast a shadow
one might shelter in, or try,
in the sunbaked afternoon. Runnels
of smaller, loosened rocks
where rain must once have rushed,
if one can fathom rain in such a place.
The thirsty land throws roadblocks
over ground that seems bent
against the premise of a path.
What wilderness welcomes
a road? What valley straightens
its spine, what mountain
bows down from its height?
But look: a road flat and straight
through the jagged rocks and ravines.
A path wide enough for a man to walk
beside his donkey, on which might ride
a woman with child. A route
between two backwaters, from Nazareth
to Bethlehem. A way.
Brent Newsom