“Camping on the Patio,” New Era, Aug. 1992, 24
Camping on the Patio
On summer nights,
grass not yet damp,
we rest on our backs
before bed
letting the world,
everything that held us
down, take us with it,
the sky, each star
locked in its place,
turning. Heaven,
we called it.
One night, after a week
knotted with high winds,
we watched clouds pile up,
a known dark above us
collapsing to blackness.
We believed God was up there,
hidden. The rain broke
suddenly, we were soaked
before we could get up
and sprint to the house.
The lightning sky
flashed to us,
a moment of white.
This is what He looks like,
my brother said
as we ran to the porch.
Then again, another crack
backed by thunder
halved a changing dark.
We looked uneasy,
eyes blinded
as if God arrived.