Between the father and the sun

Warm mists fall. Up, the leaves turn.
Skyward looking, I find I yearn
for lazy days of light and love.
A storm is coming from above.

Clouds come roiling, dark falls quick;
the sky bursts forth, the downpour thick.
Pelting rain makes branches droop
and turns the playground into soup.

Rain comes and goes and still no beam
of hope or joy can yet be seen.
When darkness does not soon abate,
a foul end must sure await
those that stand in long of light.
So sour turns this day's sun rite.
The coming of this days delight
seems snuffed by this dark, hurtful blight.

Rain and storm and death and pain
and trees that break and loves that maim.
One might give up: say all is lost--
This despair has too great a cost.

Reminded, am I, by call of wren.
Sun shines above; day comes again.

Let shadow take its course and then
the earth can heal the works of men.

June 21, 2010 \ Photo attribution