In the Arizona desert,
Where the wildflowers bloom in Spring,
I have clearly read the message,
Which in this poem I sing.
The desert is sterile and fruitless and bare,
A place where few will live
Yet, strange though it be, oft so rich are its soils,
With much of life to give.
What magic’s required, this potential to ‘stir,
Till o’er the waste Is laid,
A living bright carpet of shimmering green,
Of finest texture made,
Through which will erupt in flamboyance profuse,
A floral pattern wild,
Of reds and gay yellows, and orange and blue,
As colour by colour is piled.
So tell what’s required all this verdure to call
From whence our senses say,
Fertility long, long’s departed in death
From yellow, hardened clay.
Let thunderheads marshall and mutter and roar,
Across the dome of blue,
To shower the parched earth from their unfolded skirts,
With rain long overdue,
Then from their dark beds, will the sleeping seeds rise,
In resurrection power,
To gladden our vision by wilderness clothed,
With grass and shrub and flower.
How many the hearts like the desert are dry.
No trace of life seems left.
But, deep down within, though yet dormant and still,
The soul Is not bereft
Of powers that might be resurrected to life,
And with fresh glory glow,
With lustre and grace, so delightful and pure,
E’en in this world below.
So, tell what’s required all this verdure to call,
From whence our senses say,
Fertility long, long’s departed in death,
From mortal, human clay.
Like rain from on high, let pure love gently fall,
On hearts which seem so cold,
And then will the wonder before every eye,
In splendour rich unfold.
– Fred Wright, November 1979
