He Who Paints the Skies

Hot air, heavy with moisture, weighted lungs respond without thinking.

Breathe, but don't think.

Gray scale, landscape-shaded to match the outlook. But what of the Matchless One?

What of He who paints the skies and gives heavy air chance to cry?

What of heaven that responds with peals of thunder and illuminating flashes and Creator's glory?

Eyes to see beyond the here and now, beyond the pain, beyond one soul.

Thunder-boom and shake up, begin anew. Cleanse, drop by drop.

Look up and see skies that sing (even as they cry); Clouds that dance (even as the bright sun burns deep).

Hues that seem too perfect for our brokenness swirl above and He makes the sun to set low, bow before Him.

And breathe in, knowing there is more, knowing there is love from He who paints the skies.

Sharing this with Emily and Imperfect Prose on Thursdays.