Walking Home: A Vision

It has rained

and the tail of the storm now wanders passed us,

headed south.

It drags along the face of our mountains,

veiling them in misty glory,

while the sun ignites the frayed clouds into

white, white, white

against patches of infinite blue sky.

The sidewalks are wet but the roads are dry.

And I am small,

struggling to comprehend the magnitude of the atmosphere

that dips in and out of my lungs,

astonished at the joy of light and rock that

defies a dead, brown winter.

Still,

my young back is bent

with an aged worry

for new life.

And tomorrow trudges on,

with regrets and small victories,

while the fragile future

waits,

hungry for dreams.

But I will claim this as my vision.

I was formed of sunshine, blood, and water

just to witness

the departure of this storm.

Like the scrub oak on the slopes,

I am alive today

and daily,

eating manna from the hand of God.