The Pilgrim

A poem

Elijah, depressed, rests under the tree until an angel tells him to “Get up and eat or the journey will be too much for you!” in the Book of Kings.

The pilgrim’s strain will bear much fruit,

I tell the sole of a calloused foot.

Miles are inches; inches are miles,

scorching heat forms no joyous smile —

And so the sword glistens, longing to be preferred

to ease the task’s load that which has been conferred;

for it lay heavy upon my heart and brow

like tilling sapped soil with a splintered plow.

Then you beckon:

“Pause here,” you say, “for a second.

Eat, drink, sleep — and then we will go on together.”

But I grow weary: anxious about the road ahead and weather.

“Can we move forward,” I reply, “before I tire,

and surrender my bones to dry and muscles expire?”

“You are born not as a slave,” he said, “but as a friend.

The time will come when your labors shall end.

But I enjoy your company; will you enjoy mine?”

Those words awakened me like clay on the eyes of the blind.

So I obliged. There we rested.

My breath calmed, no longer sore, bruised or tested.

I watched: the sun shifted behind the rolling land,

while a breeze cooled the desert sand

and the mighty palms waved like crowds to a victor —

there I forgot the lie that I was an insect, only a finite drifter.

I was born to walk and rest, and of this peace I will remember this:

best to die to the moment with You — and live a pilgrim’s bliss.