I have seen the gentle breeze
sieving through the leaves of a cottonwood tree
as if to count every one.
I have seen the summer wind
sending ripples of motion through an ocean of prairie grass,
each blade bent to the task
of pointing out the direction of passing.
I have seen the gales of winter
splintering thoughts and swirling a stifling stream of snow
as though God himself were angry with the world,
piling up the drifts and sifting out every sin
into piles of cold redemption.
I have not seen a cyclone
but as surely as I am known
I have seen its brutal work:
houses broken apart like a balsa bridge,
ridges stripped clean of standing timber
and wood driven through concrete.
For all that I have seen and dreamed,
for all that I haven’t and hope I never will,
whether in the stillness of a blue dawn’s rising,
the reverence of a red ball sunset,
or in the vast quiet of a full moon on a windless lake,
I will stake that all I have ever known of peace
has come in those moments of release
into the sure keeping of hands I cannot see,
hands greater than the wind,
hands that are surely shaping
the patterns of my life,
the steps of my path,
making sure that all things
for my good.