What troubling days,

cold, dry mornings; these days, cold, dry nights.

I have dreams
of crashing waves,
loved ones dying, trees rotting
from within.

Drink does not quench.
Thin hopes crinkle, hanging on,

leaves of tired stems, readying to die.

Churches house no paupers, no sufferers,
no havens strong enough live and breathe.

What troubling days are these.

If I could, I would
walk the earth with a candle,
hooded and with bare feet,
greet each soul
with a little light,

house the broken and beaten inside my arms,
carry them all to the mountaintop,
carry them all to the mountaintop,

give them back their courage and worth.

Give it back to them.