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
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…

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
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.