The Pioneer Woman, St. George

She brought her family to this god 
forsaken place at His request. 
She will petition until He reconsiders 
and crops cover the reproach 
of a roiling red valley where  
not a single tree grows. 

Only yesterday they unhitched the team, 
unloaded the wagon, pitched the tent. 
Everything they lack is exactly 
what they’ll ask Him with. Is faith. 

Tomorrow begins the digging, cutting, 
carting water in leaky, too-small buckets 
from streams they’ve already named and prayed for 
to last through summer.  

All day, heat waves conjured the mirage 
or vision of oases, towns, a promised land  
that will flourish through His covenants 
and hers. 

            The late sun glares  
across a horizon of gray sagebrush. 
The woman shields her solemn  
brown and green-flecked eyes 
from the past, its poverty and riches.  
Shields them from this sunset,  
squints but doesn’t blink  
until the bushes flame, until she too  
is afire and not consumed.