The Messenger

Backlit against the sun

like a black angel,

I am a dove beating her wings,

olive branch

delicate and new in her mouth.

Salt cracked lips smiling,

tears blown away by the sea wind.

I am the first of a generation

seeking land
in a flood. All the rest before us
angered God
with their greed
and their bile
and their endless talk of money.

They are washed away, and we float
above the drowned echoes of their voices.  Still,
we are lost.
I am sent to look for solid ground,
and I return with the first branch,
stripped from the first new tree.

Already, you demand a sacrifice.
We will never change.