All my life I thought
I was the shore and he
the waves crashing against me.
I knew what it meant to live
at the mercy of empire and master,
the caprice of seasons and beast.
I knew El Shaddai like I knew
the desert: as a stranger
making this land my home.
I knew these hills:
every cluster of acacia
and the length of shade it casts,
every outcrop of granite,
which low regions to travel
when I’m craving the spicy fruit of wild capers.
When my skin burned
and my feet grew sores, I knew
from where I could forage rimth.
I also knew the quiet:
the echo of solitude and the haunt
of a figure on the horizon.
I knew the peace
of my campfire crackling at dusk.
So when I saw the smoke
and the tarfa bush in flames
but its soft branches still intact
I drew closer.
My sheep were still running,
still so much for me to do
before the last of the light,
but the air smelled of honey
and suddenly there came a voice.
It pierced through
the desert silence,
the din of my flock lowing in the distance,
and its timbre sounded
as if earth itself was speaking.
I hid my face, unsure
if spell or curse would be cast by this god.
But then the voice said my name
and it was like an answer
to a question I had asked all my life.
It turns out I was the night
and he was the moon;
I was the tinder
and he was the flame.