Chosen to be passed over by this wind although I'm still inside, the hurricane breaking down as it comes ashore, I pray next time I'll find my way to pray again! I may not. Given fair weather I drift as clouds, my favorite image, scud the sky, taking on light's fanciful images and poems I write from extremity drift off like yesterday slipping away.
But where? Prayer flies off into the storm's eye there to direct the wind or dissipate as the divine writes us or does not write.