You are making it rain; cool drops smacking the skin, spinning up from wheels to taste air again. You are making ten million molecules strike like static, flicking lighting toward the trees. You are making my heart pump red with blood oxygen from my ragged, asthma-tightened lungs. You make my throat clench from a curse and my body wrack with coughing, but still my legs pump. The road drips. I smile and laugh through the coughing, raising a hand in praise.
You make it rain. Your word forms clouds and winds to push them, heat and cool to collide and create storm heads. You echo my laughter with your own; a sound like thunder rolling through the clouds. Even the sky is too small to contain your word. I pass street oceans, dodging spray. I pass houses full of humans, dry and safe and mostly ignoring the glory. I pass forests, dripping and spinning with the earth as I spin along. I pass a man jogging. He smiles like he knows what is really going on.
You are making grace. You are filling clouds to overflowing and my lungs so full I must cough to breathe. You made your son to shake, willing beneath clouds darker than these. He shook with blood pouring from his side like rain from skies, spinning down to crash with this lightning on a whirling earth. You made the earth shake with thunder and tore the veil.
You make a way.
I pedal, drip, cough, and smile at the irony of asthma; at the sting of pain in the muscles as they push hard. A curse to remind me that a curse has been broken and to make me smile, soaking in the spray. You have made;
are making;
will make a way;
and I love you,
since you first loved me.
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