going, going, gone.

out in the desert,
the wilderness, many call it,
but i'm not so sure.
spent many years
thirsting, but not thirsty.
"thirsting" is an action, a verb;
"thirsty" describes a state of being.
"i thirst" said a tortured, dying man,
murdered because of our sin as we misunderstood.

everyone who wanders is not necessarily lost.
everyone who is lost is not necessarily a wanderer.
no other place can house such harsh beauty, such severe living,
as cracks drip into ridges that pour into canyons that gush to the seeming center of the earth,
telling their vast and slow-moving tale to capture the imagination, inviting it to connect
here with there, then with now:
the desert wildness in the imagination of its mighty creator.
these rocks cry out along with me, not in my silence.
spoken into being and carved into beauty,
we praise.