The God Who Is

Outside, the clouds are gray.

The brownish grass looks lifeless
and barren, not like the beach
where the churning sea pounds
an innocent shore, where both land

and water are teeming with life.  I
know people whose boats are tossed,
who tumble on ocean waves,
where no sun graces the darkness.

Meanwhile, far and away,
in dusk’s purple tint of the deepest
gray, a forlorn quail-call breaks
the silence of nature.  A lone deer

enters the thicket.  Near the ruins
of a burned-out cabin, one purple
crocus continues to grow, to join me
in that honest prayer to the God Who Is.

May the rough sea be calmed,
each tiny skiff moored.  May the dawn
shine in orange rays.  And may that light
fall onto God’s hurting children,

and onto the deer and the quail
and the cabin—in blessing and healing
and love, in understanding
and forgiveness.

NOTE:  I can always go back to where I came from, if it turns out to be better.