I wake to dampness
dripping from the eaves;
dank shadows lurk in
trees and creep across my
bed; my limbs hang limp, the
moisture seeping into bones;
my eyes are filled with gray as
far as they can see—not very
far; my world is almost gone.
A siren slices through the rain that
beats hard on my window, shouting
wet disdain for all our loneliness and pain.
Are we still here? Have we, too,
vanished in this soggy mist? The siren
moans again, its wail an echo of the
ancient cry, “O God, hide not your face from me.”
O God, hide not your face;
shower our dark, O God, with your light,
reminding us that we are here;
reminding us that so are you.