desolate, hungry clouds from the south,
and the quiet before the storm.
and those i love are sleeping, or far away.
there’s nothing that can be done just now.
all the fires and smoke are as distant
as hours and days will allow.
stillness, and waiting… for something
that hasnt taken form or spirit yet.
walking through the museum of my heart,
searching for answers, and finality.
i cant find God in the garden,
or in the pounding of the big guns.
or in the broken bodies strewn by greed,
or in the voices wailing with hurt and hunger.
every direction leads to lostness.
prayers fall like ash in the wind.
and i’m left with the sound of the
snow birds calling, waiting for the storm.