She started out alone, wandering from fire to fire,
A nomad seeking warmth from the love of fellow travelers.
She wandered far and faint, hungry for more than not quite enough,
And almost left her bones for the winged creatures of scarcity.
There in the distance her untrained eye could see
The desert sand kicked up all along the horizon:
A throng of mystics, trekking wearily but undaunted from their course,
Marching in tatters and dust and sun-baked skin
Drawing near to show the way
Where a path cannot be found, only worn
By those desperate enough to enter the foreboding field
With an endless crossing.
They come not to trample but to teach
Each one willing to stretch an empty hand
To show the wonders of fullness;
Their throats not parched as she assumed,
But satisfied beyond hoping
Through the magic of heaven's tears.
At once, she knew
She was home.
Yes, a home
Better by far than hardened angles and rigid floors of a one place.
Instead, she found her way
In the fluid, ever-moving, toiling, sweltering, steady plod
Toward a future elusive but blinding bright,
Strengthened by angels,
Bound together by sacrificial love,
Woven through doubt and faith and doubt again;
Sure and steady as hope herself
Setting leathery, naked feet
Upon the hot and shifting ground,
Belonging to everywhere,
To anywhere a shred of despair manifests.
For it is their self-appointed task
To ignite the smoldering soul
Into the unquenchable desire
She walks now among this ragged band,
Learning to breath, to taste, to wonder,
It is more than a vision.