(A True Story)
The faith healer comes, his pockets undone, while Heather suns in her rafter!
A story not told, just bartered in souls, a tale of the lack of some water. From Laramie down, patch fence work and brown, the high land the earth is branded for slaughter. A drought brought by fools, those using men’s tools, those that plant what they rather. The sound of a cry, the wind high and dry, the hungry, from Kansas to Denver. The faith healer came to pray for some rain, his black clothes, Christ mourner forever. He looks to the sky, the plains to his side, and begs his dear Jesus for water. Oh the sin that man has brought, tending cattle, slaying flock, the soul it must wander forever. He preaches on stage, of judgment day, his eyes filled red hell, a pretender. Men fall to their knees, in crisis belief, they rend their clothes open in surrender. Please rain just fall, come over us all, we give you our souls as our tender.
A star on a lake, snow covered in rays, she sits and then hovers, she quivers. A small women true, a witch through and through, down Michigan Ditch her image comes slender. Down canyon she flies, her mouth open wide, the delta she opens her river. She’s quieter than sound, less open unbound, a magic that is no pretender. Some old lady prays, comes Heather this way, she’s bringing some bones from her quiver. Come water if she’s the offender. What if our lord did send her?
The crowd gathers round, the revival tent down, the preacher stands facing Ms. Heather. She shape shifts away, comes close to his face, says what would you give them contender. Can you make it rain, or those words you say, is money, or blood your sender. The crowd murmurs strong, the preacher stands tall, and slaps her face raw with a blister. How dare you mock me you wicked deceived, the rain will come when Christ wills it. He holds his hands high, and lets out a cry, come all that I pray, please deliver.
She stands to her feet, the skies in retreat, she summons her Lord and her master. The ground churns in heat, the western sky weaves, a rain that will fall like forever. What wills, or what ways, she gathers in place, and prances on past the dear pastor. The people rejoice, a land with a voice, a rainbow from Kansas to Denver.
The faith healer leaves, his pockets undone, and Heather flies back to her rafter! – 02.19.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל