Afternoon. I feel as drained as a ghost town bathtub, cobwebs growing from the rusting faucet. Yes, a black tarantula makes its way across my mind, after a numbing week at work. Or did I make numb? I look for signs of life in the abandoned buildings of my spirit. The rope ties lack horses. The dust settles on the old player piano. The bar glasses no longer clear, but are caked with passing yellow dirt. Even tumble weeds on longer roll down the streets, too much effort.

This will pass, I say under my breath, my weariness for doing work and recovering from a period of creative explosion. The weekend will combine rest, playing with an alive 3 year-old, being with my love and worshipping God. Poetry arises in the living of life, even when the space has crimped dry. But for now, on a city bus heading home, the ground of my being cracks like misfitting puzzle pieces baked by a scorching day. Though, as I make my through this alley way, I fear not as I listen for the still voice that is with me.

Strange these desert town that arise periodically like seasonal dirt devils. The hot dry wind breaks for no reason. The broken door sway in the breeze, slamming in timed interval. The crashing sound creating a sort of clock. This is the high noon of the soul.

One of the many dangers of the high noon of the soul is thinking that we are more than just tourists to the ghost town. We start to look at the abandoned building for answers. When the bus comes to pick us up, we miss it. There are other rattlesnakes roaming. Thinking that this stop, human as it is, should be beyond Christians. No, we all stop here from time to time. The wilderness’s wilds wrench even those closest to Jesus. High noon will pass. The morning will come. For now, feel the dry sun and be with the desert until the bus comes.