The best time to write a sermon’s before
a storm–the trees bowed over, full
and quivering with holy fever, all
the birds skittering mad with fear.
God’s words will toss inside your head like seedlings
helpless in the wind until you’ve found
a way to lift them up and write them down
as prophecy so others will crave the king
that touched you in the storm and made you burn.
This life will come down hard on you and knock
you to your knees. The Lord will smile and walk
away. Left to mend yourself, you’ll learn
the broken body is your sermon, crying
over the town like rain. Your eyes must bear
the darkness of the clouds. Fix your stare
like trees rooted in the soil, rising
in spite of wicked gusts. Let the news
sting the listener’s ear like shocks of hail,
your body’s fury making sinners pale
to pure repentance as your torso moves
like a dreaded fit of wind across God’s stage.
Lift your hands and jerk them low. Ease
out the hurt you cage inside, squeeze
your fists to show how close love is to rage.