Treasures
Gray heavy the cloud lids droop
to hide the burning eye;
the palm heads bow,
grasses sigh,
waves churn dark below.
The storm may rage but cannot last;
sleepy sun will wake anew
and on the scoured sand be cast
the buried treasure of the sea.
So much like souls in storms of life,
bent by the wind and bowed
beneath demonic voices, foul,
the waves molesting dark and loud,
but just beyond the veil of gray
the Son still blazes, warm.
The tempest soon will cease
and in the soul –
the treasures of the storm.
July 26, 2026
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