Flurries swirl giddily,
Sleet and ice shatter on the ground,
Hail dives down on gusty winds,
Lightning rips the clouds to shreds,
And men stare into the sky,
Frowning and bemused.
For all their modern devices,
They cannot predict Your whims;
Do You laugh at their forecasts?
They say it will snow,
Say when, and where, and how much,
But the temperature rises
With Your breath,
And rain spoils their predictions.
You follow no simple, explainable pattern
You are an artist,
And Your palette lacks no medium:
Meteor showers and fire rainbows,
Hurricanes and Chinooks;
With Your brush You decorate the heavens,
And drop stars into place –
A trail of hints You’ve let slip,
To keep us in awe of You.
You smile indulgently
At our scientists’ confusion,
And watch with amusement,
As they chase snippets of truth
Across the atmosphere;
As for the rest, it remains a mystery,
Till the moment of unveiling.
~ Ilana Reimer