Cry out

Poets find your presence in the fire and the storm.
They seek you in majesty.
They look at mountains and see the ridges of your thumbprint.
They cry your praise when you paint the autumn.
They throw open their hearts to the sun.
They marvel as the cold kernel stirs to life.

But you are in the bitter days as well,
the afternoons so dull I could weep.
You are the maker of anthills as well as mountains,
and the stately wake of the single crackled leaf.
You drew the colour from the sunset and breathed grey fog.
You kill some seeds, barren rocks that litter the ground and will never grow.

You are in despair as well as in triumph -- perhaps
even more, for despair is a magnet for your mercy.

If I look hard, I can see you in linoleum tiles,
in the ugly things squeezed out by human hands.
Even in flicker of acetylene,
you are there.

Break me of my addiction to glory.
Show me your face while my eyes are still open.
Erase the illusions.
Bring mundane peace.