Lord

Lord,
Your supernovas
Look as irises,
Your black holes,
Are Your pupils,
Dilated.
Your presence
Dots the night,
As Your tears
Run hot across
The autumn sky,
Raining anger
In sparks,
As You mourn
Creation’s loss,
Hearts live torn,
burnt and tossed,
But have chosen
To remain locked.
I look forward
To summer,
To hear
The thunder
In Your voice,
When you seem
The most cross,
And shout of their
Belief in naught
Upon the cloud tops.
I’m listening
To what You have
To say then, God
In the flashes
Of Morse code,
Penned by
Lightning bolts;
I close my eyes
And read it also
In the Braille
You’ve impaled
On granite rock,
In the bark of
Birches and oak,
What can one say
Of the lovely musk
You have hung
In the conifers?
Or the willow’s
Pretty locks?
It’s all so compelling,
It’s made me choke
More than I ought.