It could be spring in November
waiting for a rain, yet we worry
about weather we can’t control—
complain to gods we have invented:
separate specialists leaving signs
we let tease and disappoint us
within the space we vest our lives.
But the Glory Hallelujah chorus
roars when it storms off every hillside,
pours down draws. Yet beneath dark sky
duals of thunderbolts, heavens at war,
we cherish our electric helplessness
and raise a glass to Gods all.
It could be spring in November, or
another religion for which we ride.