The sky has been waiting all day.
A thick whiteness and too-still air.
Humid streets pierced by white and red car lights,
Highways humming with efficiency
And pedestrians in black or khaki jackets.
Businessmen in business wear
All going about their business but the sky, was waiting.
There was a bright spot where the sun was hiding,
Rising and then falling as the whiteness faded
To a night that was not quite dark.
Although there were no stars,
Lights still split the roadway
But the sky was waiting.
Gradually the lights blinked out
Until all that was left
Was a spattering
Of what looked like stars, from high enough above.
It was as if the humans were,
In their ordered efficiency,
Trying to make up for the firmament’s odd, tranquil pause.
The sky was waiting.
I do not know what it was waiting for.
The first sign was when the wind began to blow.
It was as if she was warning us
Or perhaps heralding what was to come.
She was the hasty messenger,
The harried assistant,
Or the sudden angels.
The leaves swirled and branches bent.
In a yard someone’s basketball hoop was felled.
She tore at my hair and clothes,
Filling my lungs with the smell of the earth anticipating.
It was less than a minute’s notice for at last,
The sky was ready.
He had made it to the front of the line he was in,
I suppose,
Or finally had his on-hold cosmic telephone call answered.
The time was consummate.
The clouds were rent,
And a maraca of raindrops fell.

Published by

Breanna Joy

Once upon a time, in a far-away land, there was born one chill wintry day a lass who would come to be called Bre. She grew up whiling away the time upon myriad pursuits that would one day shift from pursuits to passions; creative, curious, and mischievous, she loved to read whatever she could manage to get her hands on (in particular novels, those of plot complex, world intriguing, and characters remarkable) — and read she did! She devoured words with so fierce a joy that she grew skillful in wielding such words as her own — story, journal, article, post and poem alike. For other arts, she also nurtured admiration. She loved in her heart the beauteous sound of music and the power it held over emotion and spirit. And she would work with her own hands to sketch and to paint and to correct and to create. One of her deepest passions was the stage, where she would take on a character as if an article of clothing, and live and breathe in another’s skin. In addition, the stories of times past and cultures distant enraptured her fascination, and she dreamed of one day venturing to explore these unknown lands. But these, these were nothing to the true heart of her soul. She found for herself a motley band of what can only be called friends–though some of whom were, truth be told, far more than that to her. They changed her being and resided in her heart. And so she lived, and loved, and dreamt. She dreamt of adventure and beauty and song and story and love and laughter. But far beyond anything else, did she strive with love toward her God. For this was her own great quest, or, if you will, her part in His own great story: to love those in the world, as He had loved her, when she had not loved Him–indeed, when she had turned from Him, hid from Him, rejected Him and ignored Him–He loved her enough to die for her. And so, because of this great love that now burned like a fire inside of her, a blazing beacon, she strove for a life lived in a beautiful harmony to Him who gave her a second chance. As she grew, she became confused, and doubting, and weak, and afraid, and unclean, and she would forget, and go to the world that was pressing at her to give in, in an attempt to satisfy her emptiness, though it would always leave her wanting. But always she would return, and be whole and filled again, made complete and beautiful in her soul. Storms would come and battles would rise; she would be tried and tested in many ways, and even so the story continues, but know ye this–He held her and led her all her days, and in the end, He would bring her to His own happily ever after.

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