Enchanted Rock

I had not planned to photograph this scene. I was there by chance but I knew it was an opportunity to record something special. The question of religious faith is a theme that appears often in my poetry, evidence, I suppose, of my own struggle to come to terms with it. Sometimes I think I suffer from “faith envy.” More often I just don’t get it. So I work it out on paper with poems like Enchanted Rock.

On a Good Friday in April

The heavy clouds hung low,

Blending with the barren rock,

Cold and Colorless.

Three silhouettes against the sky,

Three crosses upon the crown,

There the faithful gathered round.

The soft sound of song

Drifted on the wind

Asking, where have you been?

I made my way to the appointed place,

Drawing close to the pageant

That played out before me.

I could hear more clearly now,

The young voices calling,

Do you believe?

As an outsider I stood,

A witness to the divine,

And they began to pray.

I walked around the congregation,

Quietly observing, wondering

What it is they know or feel

That I do not?

A few glances in my direction,

But no invitation or denial.

The ritual proceeded unbidden,

The worshippers subsumed

In this transient moment.

I studied the faces of the faithful.

What brought you here to stand

Upon this Texas hill?

Are you lost or have you been found,

A wish for a dream unfulfilled,

A desire for a joy unrestrained?

Looking for a sign, a feeling, a place,

An inner voice, the wind against your face,

The warm light of the sun

Breaking free from the clouds?

I watched and waited, thinking

On the random nature of faith.

Why some have it and some do not.

And who is blessed, and who is cursed,

What we gain and what we lose,

By choosing a certain path?

On that enchanted rock

There was no epiphany, but

I knew I had witnessed something beautiful,

And that was enough for me.