from behind the tiny boat

I water ski on raindrops
while God pours out his heart
in a flood of passion

The browns, greens and blues
bow before holy crazy gray.

When the last color pays tribute
I stand again
and see where swollen river
crawls up from her banks

to caress all her children
as they splash by
with their roaring fears
hoping to assemble for a song
in the cold dark foggy sea.

She sings her lullaby
hymn to my fat white bearded God

I can't tell if he hears her
or me when I beg for shades
of meaning and the hues of hope.

That is fine,
her song will bring me home
so my carcass can dry out

That is fine,
antediluvian, I was too dry;
my passions weighted with blistered feet
and sunburn.

I will be buried
baptized by her
to drive below the cold waves of frothing madness
where the serene sharks do not dream
inundation
or repentance.