Thursday, November 2, 2017

above our world
clouds sit like skin
clumping into white sheets and flakes
dry and cracked
where the sun has baked them too long

and over the surface of this skin
a cold wind is always rolling
there to be felt
though it cannot be heard
since its motion is not one so much of sound 
as of sight
and a vague stirring of the dark
that dims distant starlight

God's hand is in that wind
for he watches over each of us
big and small
and from time to time
stretches out his heavenly arm
with its long black fingers
to grasp us in His icy palm
shielding us from the harshness of unstable nebulae
which might otherwise dazzle or destroy our fragile condition

though we rarely thank Him here
down below the epidermis
where things are warmly lit 
and the blood of rivers running downhill
gives us joy 
to sit and ponder inmost beauty
without counting the magnitude of galaxies
or gripping smooth cold stones.

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