Mourners mouth old words
and their prayers rise like desert birds
into dry air from dry footing,
vanish into empty sky
and head for places unknown.

All are informed by a scripture
that is enshrined in a thimble
of chipped bone
filled and refilled constantly
with ash —
its voice
is centered
on solving the mystery
laid away
in graves, is
reflected on with great deliberation,
practiced daily,
softened by time and then reformed
to appear
exactly as it has always appeared
upon the passing
of every believer.

All that being said,
faith remains
a legendary grain we hope to find
is tangible, is located
somewhere in the thimble,
a fragment we seek to hold
between our fingers,
rolling it back and forth.