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|source: S John Davey|
I’m not sure I’ll ever become accustomed to
being so close to the clouds.
I drive through them, can reach up and touch them if
I just stretch my fingers far enough.
More than ten years ago,
I saw the black like ink on the ground, moving,
and I thought it was some kind of plague.
I had never been close enough to the clouds
to see their shadows, shifting on the wheat-grass.
Montana was so wide,
the amber fields of grain.
(But not purple mountains majesty, she said. Those were back in the Virginia homeland.)
The clouds have been so thick, so dense
I’ve rarely seen the moon for weeks.
I miss its guidance but know when it does show itself,
my heart will sing.
We’re still scraping our ways out of the shadow,
waiting for the sky to clear,
poring over Scripture and longing
for the still, small voice.
When we can see over the cloud cover and straight to the eye of the moon.