Poem of Hope
I fled the land where my fathers polluted their souls.
I fled another land of fundamentalists,
where all fathers were dangerous.
The land I’ve come to is beautiful.
It lies beside a great once was a seabed.
Dust and open spaces measure the land.
Red-violet ridges blend into the sky.
The bird reserve has brine-black waters.
Pale dust is finer than porcelain dust on the land I walk.
Sun heals as it bakes and sears torn souls back together.
If I leave the path for the foothills,
Virga rains cry only for the heavens.
Geese and small birds allude me.
Already they do their migration practices.
Patricia L. Johnson