Friday Skies

Storms on Friday.

Where is the miracle
Cynic lightly amuses.

Sit him blank inside a room.
Empty.

Tell he,
Make rain wail.
Thunder burst.

Have he,
Find armor
All animals of the land.

Then from common pacing
His fear alone

Unlock he,
To dark day outside.
Growing painful.

Look again.
A stopped sun.
Waters heaved.
Disappeared animals,
Unseen and beneath.

Who has?

Science.
Cynic mocks.

So soon casting
Lonesome awareness and

History.
The barren room.
Unto him without praise
Opened.

Cross to unprovable mystery.
Now angered eyes
Demand yet abate
Questions of
How giveth sight, or who
Released.

He revolts.
The ordinary phenomenon.
Friday cries black
Without miracle.

Passing storm, breaking sky.
A final breath.
The sun returns.
And creatures
From cavernous retreat.

He pauses.
Still to sound.
Examining quiet, like light.

Only he and his dry earth
Know towards which he will turn.
If he shall kneel
Or deny, standing alone.

Pray for he,
Master of all
Which happens outside
But sparse without key
To questions within.
Rains of his soul, or
How long will he fall
Or how dark skies fell open
When his emptiness called.