“Storm’s over, Girlie,”
He hath said to me.
“Thunder’s shook and passed you, Sugar;
Our promises We keep.”
“We opened your chest
And poured you full of what We wilt.
Then, by and by,
We made sure you landed
Well within the rye.”
“Don’t think that the rye fields are safe for good,”
He continued on.
“For there be pests and stones and ergotism
That wouldn’t spare a fawn.”
“That’s the way We made things, Sugar.”
O, what a precarious thing,
Like a water glass teeters on the back of a turtle.
“Yes–another storm We’ll bring.”
I hope it won’t be the same as the last.
“Only We have knowkedge of that, Girl.
But each raindrop and lightning pop
Does have its own unique whirl.”
So be it that another storm is just beginning.
But this time, God willing,
I’ll know better and I’ll remember
To stand under only His umbrella.
I’ll stay to see whatever may be
(For there are things that can’t be sold)
And the Earth indeed He’ll fold.