At the Table in Thunder

Here now, late at night, alone at the table, I draw to the sound of thunder and the rattle of rain against the windows.

The house is dark except for this small pool of light. Outside, the world is being washed, struck, shaken. Inside, my hand moves slowly across the page, making marks no one has asked for, no one is waiting for, and yet somehow they feel necessary.

The thunder speaks in a language older than words. The rain answers in thousands of small syllables. And I, with my pen, add my thin human line to the chorus.

Perhaps this, too, is prayer: not asking, not explaining, not performing. Just being awake with the storm. Just making something while the night makes music. Just sitting at the table as the rain reminds me that the world is still alive, still trembling, still being drawn by a hand larger than mine.

I Am . . .

I am the ringing chime
I am the blowing breeze
I am the pileated’s cry
I am the wind in the trees

I am the hush before thunder
I am the trembling leaf
I am the ache beneath wonder
I am the prayer under grief

I am the shadow at evening
I am the gold on the hill
I am the creek softly speaking
I am the soul becoming still

I am the dog at the doorway
I am the lamp in the rain
I am the path through the meadow
I am the song after pain

I am not one thing only
I am neither fixed nor confined
I am the world God is breathing
in my body, spirit, and mind.

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