He lay there, an old man
sprawled on the ground,
his body reluctant to move.
He could feel the cool earth
against his cheek,
could taste the dust on his lips.
He knew it should not be long
before what was left of him
would mingle with this same
dust and earth.
He wondered what Sarai
would think,
looking out from the kitchen window,
wondering if her man
would soon be home,
then see him lying prone, unmoving,
in the fields of Promise.
She would come to him,
borne by strength and terror
her skirts flapping in the air,
fling herself upon him,
lift him up,
pressing her mouth against his,
seeking life.
How could he tell her
of the words turning in him,
the dream of fruitfulness,
a hope that tasted more like stars
than dust?
He pulled her down upon himself,
and the two of them,
wrapped in each other's arms,
laughed into the darkness.
(Comments to Tim at timothyhaut@yahoo.com.)