In the Tossing, Still

Winds whip their way

around and over

the place we are gasping

for some air without the sea

hurled like a beachball

without the colors of joy

we are carried with the tide

into the grey of a storm

it is hard to be still as we are thrown

into one wave

and then another

by an ocean of wicked hands grasping

threatening to pull us under

with their grip of murder

it is harder to have faith when we can’t see where we are going

but faith is believing even when we can’t see

the power that controls the water

and the wind

subsiding

even as we are breathing

in a new beginning