Some days there’s a soothing presence
that moves in my mind
like a gentle breeze on a hot day,
a slight rustling in the cottonwood
that says “there will be peace and goodness.”
Some days there’s a stirring
that bends the stems,
a deep swaying of a prophet’s heart
that could send him into the very palace
speaking angry and ancient mutterings
of judgment and wrath.
Some days there’s a storm,
a raging of broken branches,
brittle leaves ripped from trees
and sent scattering
across yards and fields,
caught against the black-splintered rails
of untended fences.
Some days there’s a dead silence,
a crippling stillness,
an absence of nearness to anyone or anything,
days when boulders could fall into the abyss
and make not a single ripple.
Those are the days that scare me,
the days when I rely most
on knowing the Hand I cannot feel,
the God Whose Presence does not depend
on my sensing.