burning bush on moistened soil

She knows what is sown in air
harvest storms and absence
and told him to plant their faith
on moistened soil instead;
soil where they believed,
blessings came.

He pressed the earth
at the succeeding sunrise
while she pranced
with honeyed-tongue soliloquies.
Both in filthy garments,
hymns and songs of saints
they bestowed
in this assurance of change.
He, she, in body, soul, spirit,
felt a sudden sensation
their praises they had praised
yesterday had brought.
It is the day their devotion
sprouted a bush that bloomed
festal fumes and flames.

The fire singed their skins
but felt no pain. They took off
their garments, paused on their impulses,
then cuddled and huddled on the ground,
beside the light
of the burning bush’s flame.
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