The day after the storm,
Where the winds have turned to whispers,
Wiping away the last of the tears from the trees
Who bore the wrath of heavens.
The chirps of warning the day before have become
Songs of comfort for those who were frightened;
There is no longer reason to fear.
Flowers bloom and greet the sun above.
Creatures appear, surveying the landscape.
The grass shrugs off the aftermath — collateral damage was minimal.
The stillness in the air is of peace,
Creation no longer holds its breath in anticipation.
The world is quiet here.
The last time I stood here,
You shook the very earth beneath my feet,
Destroying what we had built together.
Walls, fortresses, cities, we had spent years solidifying.
You tore my world apart, and left me in ruins,
All without lifting a finger.
“Greater works than these we will do.”
I just want to walk on water too.
Part of me
new to meet.
The other part of me
still looks and finds
pieces of you
in everyone I see.
The fog hangs in the air like a t-shirt left out to dry. The thickness causes the trees to constantly wave to one another, unsure if their branches can be spotted through the eerie weather. Some trees are more frantic than others. Perhaps the are not waiving in welcome, but in warning: “It is not safe here.” The fog is is in no rush to leave, making its mark on all that behold its presence: “I was here, do not be so quick to forget.”
To escape the looming doom from above, the water leaves its home in the sky and seeks safety in the trees. They offer no refuge, but encouragement: “Continue to flee. Down below; find safety below!” and releases them to resume their descent.
In near silence this transpires, the only sound from the breeze, on guard for suspicious behavior: interrogating the trees, testing the defenses of nature.
They are waiting.
Three posts, an “About” me page completed, and yet still I feel like I haven’t said anything. I still feel like I am still trying to find my way. Understanding what it is that I want this to be. I have ideas in my head that are never quite worked out to the degree that I wish them to be, and so I am never quite as confident, never quite as sure, as I might seem. Know that I agonize over every post, over every word, constantly, with perfection being as elusive as the details of a fading dream.
One day I’ll get it right.