O Lord what softnesses
above the head assemble
of woman, man and child.
What white-flame vastnesses
of air, what sky-piece jumble
of dew-fields wild?

What hand has trailed
atoms of fieriness
over these soft-flung meadows?
O Lord what shadows
are cast on us.
What face is veiled

in these swift dreams? Sky, sun
revealed, are merely more disguise:
and then redoubled
the great sky-drama has again begun.
God of the random skies
I too am troubled.

I hope: the outcome is unclear:
I wait: no sun
or it’s too soon, or come and gone:
I tire of waiting on and on –
let it be done!
But the clouds too are dear

that tell of day and night above,
and all the shifting ocean’s epic play
within the deep beyond.
All that is now I welcome, Lord. Today
I am of day’s full openness less fond.
It is the clouds I love.

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