Pharasaic

God is burrowed tightly. I stalk
well worn paths, shifting past
clefts in the rocks, trying to
pillow myself in their stiff ridges.
But roots wedge the limestone, splitting,
spilling tendrils. Not there, not in
moss and lichens. I would strike the stones
but maybe this time there’s nothing
in the water. It’s a time of exile, and mine
is dry and lacks desire. Parched land
no one wants to touch. Trenches
with no rain, without music to sprinkle
the garden. Maybe down there,
in this thin, tindered straw,
something is cradled.

--
Matthew Miller teaches social studies, swings tennis rackets and writes poetry -- all hoping to create home. He and his wife live beside a dilapidating orchard in Indiana, where he tries to shape dead trees into playhouses for his four boys. His poetry has been featured in Whale Road Review, River Mouth Review, EcoTheo Review and Ekstasis Magazine.