A man on the east side of a wall
cannot see the road beyond,
nor see through cracks the setting
sun, nor feel the stones sifting
away in the sands of time.

He is a stone statue stood in place
one day at the ghost of a stone wall
raining down in a local sand storm.
Even when the air clears and the road
ahead opens, his hands remain rocks,
hinged to his petrified ears, even when
the small grains of himself are blowing
out, away. Even then he tries to hold
the dust of himself from the wind.

Only when faith is down to the powder
of bare bones will he hear
the east wind against his back. Even to
the end he believes the empty echo
of his voice comes from God
who’ll blow these stones together again.

–Robert S. King