His robes were supposed to be white.
They were the lilies, they were
the sun, the way it breathes
through morning rain
just barely, brightly, near.
But sometimes, His robes are the sand.
They are the grit of the floor
under cracking knees, they are
the paths we softly sweep,
shallow channels in the desert, alluvial fans
of prayer, and pebbles,
His parched palms
beneath our splayed hands.