Glory be to God for cloudy days
And blustering winds, and red runny noses
And frigid, frozen, frosty air.
I shudder, yet I stop and praise
The glorious maker of holly and roses,
While mittens and jackets rush here and rush there.
Standing on the brown dead land
I look to the grey and roiling sky,
Exhaling a prayer with visible breath.
I stand in awe of the omnipotent hand
And the eye, the oh-so-wondrous eye,
That can see the beauty in death.
No comments:
Post a Comment