The Color of the Cloud

Why not tell us the color of the cloud
To paint a picture vivid and real?
Why not recount holding the staff
That made a river stand on its heels?

Why not blaze with words the pillar of fire
To make us squint in the light and the heat?
Why not marvel unabashed at the morning dew
That brought food for millions to eat?

Your enemies came crashing down
Yet where are the stories of war?
Were the colors of blood and victory songs
To be seen and heard no more?

You wrote of the rage that boiled over
At the sight of a golden calf,
Yet what of the tears that salted your lips
As your brother’s last day passed?

Moses, you looked at the face of God
But kept sacred what you were shown.
And the day you climbed your last mountain top
Your thoughts were kept all your own.

But though the words are simple and details sparse
The Authorship holds power,
And your story lacks not a single word,
for the colors and feelings are ours.

Because as we read, we also write
Our own story, a journey now,
Where we taste the tears, sing the songs,
And look for the color of the cloud.

 

bn (2002)