In the Village

Another Sonnet

The broken, baking, toiling, tilled-up ground,

Infertile, yet the hope of those who come

To lift their voices in the raucous sound

Of heartfelt praise and hearts upraised—work done.


So I too enter tin-roofed, mud-brick walls

And see the dark and dancing forms of these

My brothers and my sisters in the call,

Saharan singing rippling the glassy seas.


Delight—their newfound, milk-fed faith in God—

I find fans my first love's flame, praising Christ

Despite the fields of unforgiving sod

Despite the things they've loved and sacrificed.


Amidst the heat, the beatings, want, and wars

 The tam-tams set the tempo of the stars.