“WHAT A GYP!!”
With
raised fist and gnarled face
I
accuse the skies.
I
have been waiting for snow,
wishing
for snow,
praying,
hoping, and fishing for snow.
I
have been daring snow,
oh
where-ing snow, and
(for
reverse psychology’s sake)
not-give-a-care-ing
snow.
All
this and not one single flake.
But
as my fist drops and my eyes come back to earth,
I
sigh,
“God
knows best.”
And
this is the proof:
that
between the second coming
and
the fall of man,
I
can get so worked up about something
like
the weather,
and
can fill a book with idle words
by
which to be judged.
(Did
I say not one single flake?
Well,
there might be one here…)
Yet,
I believe you understand.
I
believe you do not think it petty
to
be a man,
or
to care for the sparrow,
or
to pour artistry
into
the icy iron-work
whose
feathery falling
makes
winter crunch deliciously
like
the year’s dessert.
For
this season
you
precipitated:
spirit
crystallized as flesh,
deity
danced where the wind willed—
out
from its cloudy veil,
down
through empty skies,
and
into arms that waited
faithfully.
