32. Forty Days and Forty Nights

32.
Forty Days and Forty Nights

Not much out here; a gulp
Or two of brackish water, a root
Clawed from the dirt and gnawed.
Once in a great while, some 
bitter greens.
The sand burns my feet.

Local spirits chant to me,
Querulous, inquisitorial,
Even worse, sometimes, agreeable.
Bad company; I turn a cold shoulder
And sing “Adonai” at the top of my lungs.

The good news? I am in love.
The stars now shine in a vast blue sky
And the sun rises at dusk. I smell rosemary,
Myrrh, sweetest of all, musk.
She is just over that dune there, I am sure.

But beyond a further line of hills lies Jerusalem
Where I will, in good time, wend to
Climb one more obstinate slope
And there make an end.

Destiny, like this desert, is tiresome.
Know this, my friends; I cannot not.