night clears the indigo sky,
sponging smog into the ground
or somewhere, we can't see or smell it,
and today's clouds no longer look
like they're flowering forth from the expanse
the way a poem,
an atom bomb,
or cream in my coffee
flowers
these clouds light, like fly-away spun sugar
on a wash of all subtle blues combined
the wind plays high in this atmosphere,
as if it had discovered a vertical field
and could now run
not low to the ground and gritty
as it was this afternoon,
but chilled like a bottle of wine,
with all the bubbles of champagne
is there a sponge for my smog, and the iniquity
of my clouding?
will the rain that frees the wind
pour also an ablution
for my grime-smeared windows?
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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*mumbles something about having to look up ablution. Thought perhaps you may have badly mispelt absolution. But apparently this is a related word to it, in the idea of self washing. Grrrrr... Sarah, with her peculiar words strikes again.
PS. *hands over one of those magic eraser sponges. No kidding, these things are good. They were so made by God.
Hey now Martin Luther, while you're scrubing, don't forget you discovered the Lord's grace.
"But because of his great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ even when we were dead in transgressions --it is by grace you have been saved. . . For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith -- and this not from yourselves, it is the gift of God-- not by works, so that no one can boast." --Ephesians 2:4-5, 8-9
You are good. You are made so good by his grace. you are wonderful. You live in him. No scrubbing you do can ever amount to the scrubbing he's already done for you. Know it. Believe it.
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