Sunday, October 14, 2012

the weak creature in the storm

Count the strands
of one small feather
if you can
as she wings tethered
to the wind—
such power
in so gentle a thing!
Then consider
humble nests
in high gray rocks
or low black branches,
sun-beaten then rain-drenched,
unmarked by all but God.
They too sing for pleasure
or pain—to protect
or gain some ground—
their whistling pitch drowned out
by the busy sound
of human greed—
yet still they scatter seeds
and plant flowers
with flapping limbs and pointed beaks.

Consider my soul,
small in the canyon,
powerless beneath the lightning
but beautified because I’m loved.

the weak creature in the storm
by troy cady

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