The Baptist sees you wing from past the sun,
from off the waters where the world had been
but now where worlds lie drowned, where none
but floating dead are all you’ve seen of men
while searching for a solid dock for God —
but now, regale the Father’s ark with news!
Like daring buds on Aaron’s dying rod,
a flash of green in brown and boring views
of sea, a living knoll where you can rest
with trees whose twigs bow up to greet your kiss
then twine to form a voluntary nest:
it’s Jesus, dry oasis in this wet abyss!
So stop, and sip the dew, and nibble dates,
then fly a newborn sprig to Him Who Waits.
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