Thunderstorm Hymn

sits on bed

strums guitar softly

thunder plays the timpani

tap-tap of rain

swells of the wind

drown the strings in glory

a girl and the elements

only one song

Creator and creature in symphony

Sunday Afternoon

Low on gas

she

Throws coat in back seat

Rolls down windows

Skips exit

It’s the first warm day of the year.

Drives slow,

Doesn’t care. 

Drives fast,

Doesn’t care.

Doesn’t sing along,

Just listens,

Just drives…

            drives…

Semi-trucks and

SUVs and

sports cars,

Any just driving?

            She wonders. 

            Breathes deeply. 

Twenty-three miles (one for each year)

And exit eighty-three

To nowhere.

Windy roads and

empty fields and

small-mountain hills.

Smells manure,

Doesn’t mind.

Feels familiar,

But different enough. 

Deserted cemetery.

Pulls in

Drives the circle

Sees familiar last names

and crucifixes and flowers. 

Sees a fat goat watching her,

chomping grass.

Feels no death

Feels sunlight

Feels good.

Low on gas

she

finds her own way home.

Everything Looks Perfect From Far Away

And who can say what it is? 

Financial stability, an empty schedule, and no responsibilities… so I’ve heard. 

But maybe it’s lotion on cracked winter hands—stinging, healing.  The endlessness of open roads.  Music and art.  Maybe it’s the release that comes with cussing, the solitude of car-crying, or the last moment of worship in a sanctuary about to be destroyed. 

Maybe it’s nothing.