Traveling Light

Chariots of Israel,

fire hidden in wood

of handcart wheels,

churn the dust,

rut the rock,

toil in heat and cold.

Wet from yet another

crossing of the Platte,

they are bent to round

Zion bound.

Those who go leave

all but seventeen

pounds of poverty

carefully weighed.

Each ounce considered,

they abandon offense,

desert regret,

lessen their load,

hastening the trail

a thousand miles

where oxen pulled.

Evening river

and western sky glow

gold as a pillar of faith,

their vision of hope.

Igniting a legacy, they

muscle the mountains,

venture the road.

Campfires of a hundred

days mark the way

we will follow,

traveling light.