Clouds

I thank you, Father, for clouds. I thank you for the whispy feather clouds that thinly veil the sun's radiance and seem to take an eternity to move across the sky.

I thank you for the magnificent banks and swells of clouds that roll and tumble like magnificent waves against a sapphire backdrop, casting great, swift shadows on the startlingly green grass below.

I thank you for the vast expanse of grey cloud in all its ominousness and malice, its oppressive and bleak presence making me all the more aware of man's need for light and beauty.

I thank you for the puffy white clouds that dot the azure sky like so many meandering sheep.

I thank you for the moonlit clouds, silent and star-riven, the very deepest blue of night hemmed in soft silver.

I thank you for the sunlit clouds at daybreak and day's end, gold-tinged, fiery, paradisiacal. They seem to me the outskirts of heaven, stirring within me bittersweet longings for the heart of that great city, for gold-paved streets and sinners redeemed and saints glorified and angelic voices and seeing total acceptance in the eyes of One who loves me.

I thank you that the natural things of this world can stir us so, can call to heart that which no eye has seen, nor ear heard, nor imagination conjured, and make us long for them, and for you.