Dale Lloyd

I hear it in the falling rain,
even though I can’t explain.
I see it everywhere I look,
and hear it when I read a book.

It dances in the moon above
and smiles in the face of love.
I hear it sing in every song—
it feels at home, like it belongs.

When birds of grace pass through the air,
yes, I also see it there.

The lightning shatters darkest night,
the thunder answers without choice—
and right there in that display of power,
I can hear the voice.

The tempest and the ocean’s roar—
nature flings her open door.
The magic art of clouds on high,
shifting, changing, as they journey across sky.

And in the seasons’ faithful change
it meets me as it passes—strange
and familiar—yet once again:
summer fields of swaying grass,
those same fields when packed with snow.

An unseen presence there abides,
inviting me to go
on a journey of discovery,
to learn: Another is in control.

I linger still with one lament,
a quiet sadness in my heart—
for those who walk through all these things
deaf and blind to nature’s art.

What a sad, sad tragedy—
how narrow such a life must be:
as narrow as the barns they build
to hoard away their store.
While true wealth waits, immeasurable,
just outside their bolted door.