Our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost - a poem resisting despair.

Our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost

(Ezekiel 37: 11b)

The roof is ribs of stone
with no lungs to loose them, no hammer
to prize fossilised saints from the cliffs, no spark
to make the stone-carved stars shine.
If there were angels in the architecture
they too are petrified.
Visitors pause
admiring the arches, commending the craft
yet not seeing (not saying?)
there is no life here.

No.

Life is buried here.
Fossils are not extinct, but frozen
captive in cold stone.
There is a hammer to set the saints free,
to make the stars shine.
I cannot wield it.

I do not grieve for death, I grieve
that I cannot stir life. I wait
for resurrection.

As it is written:
Prophesy to these bones, and say to them:
O dry bones, I will cause breath to enter you,
and you shall live.

These bones shall live.
These ribs shall rise.
This place shall breathe and carry me
on its breath.