- Charles Bowden, Blues for Cannibals
God, a glance in the mirror reveals gray hair and age spots. Damn, I look like an old mesquite tree, standing, believing, waiting. I can soldier on quite convincingly, tortured with the promise. But there are days, not often, but sometimes, when I wish you'd pour from the sky into my dreams that we might grapple. I'm not angry, you know that. I'd just like to feel you, not the you of the the word, but the you beyond the word. You have blessed and I hope you will continue to bless. You have wounded and yes, I believe that too shall not cease. But that the leaves might feel the rush...
I felt the love that day in the canyon so grand, when the water was depleted and there was still some distance to the rim. In the cleft of the rock, literally, the water bottles rested along with the note - take it. And I did. What I drank was not water, but something beyond the word. It tasted like...love.
There is so much talk of you, so many words. In the way the letters C-O-W do not give milk, the letters G-O-D do not give love. We want to believe that writing the word and speaking the word and attempting to make the word famous will bring the rain. But I fear that may be the folly of youth; the lips are near but the leaves still droop. Or they will. The nations roar and you laugh. Your children roar and I fear you may gasp. There is so much talk of you.
I am not alone. There are others, standing, believing, waiting. We are learning of the rain and the mesquite and that beyond the words.