You do not know where the wind walks,
how it stirs the cottonwoods at dusk,
the way it moves the dust across the plain
like ghosts fleeing a silent war.
It has no name but carries the weight of ages,
whispering secrets it will never tell.
Nor can you see the hands that shape
the life itself beneath the ribcage of the world,
human bone and body spun from silence,
blood singing its first unspoken hymn.
The Maker’s fingers work in shadows,
his loom threading stars and sinew alike,
his breath a word we cannot utter.
Out here, the land rolls on forever,
the earth stitched to the sky by horizons
that shimmer like lies in the heat.
Through fields of wheat that bend like prayers,
through rivers that carve the land like longing,
through nights so wide the stars seem near enough to touch.
The earth is full of voices, though none speak your name,
yet in the hush between footfalls, you listen
and the silence hums with something divine
Men plant their seeds in the dark soil,
their faith as fragile as the brittle stalks.
They do not know which will rise,
nor whether the rains will come
or the locusts.
But still, they sow.
Still, they wait.
Because there is no knowing,
and yet, there is knowing,
a quiet thing, lodged deep in the chest,
older than man’s knowing itself.
And on you press,
Because what is faith, if not a step forward
into the unknown,
into the unseen,
into the hands that have held all things
since before time learned to name itself,
The wind moves, and you cannot see it.
Life grows, and you do not know how.
But somewhere, beyond the farthest ridge,
the unseen hand is steady at work,
turning the world on its axis,
calling you to walk forward,
though the road may never show its end,
and you walk
until paths of dust are traded,
for streets of gold.