Tim E. McGuire
St. Hildegard of Bingen Writing Group
“Fearing that we would be dashed against the rocks, they dropped four anchors from the stern and prayed for daylight.”
When a storm arises, a walk becomes a quest.
A hat guards the head from slashing rain
but constant grip means the arm gets no rest.
The long coat thought sufficient to the day
flaps its feeble wings to flee the fierce gale.
Darkness looking back, forward the only way.
Ice sags the power lines as well as the heart.
Windblown trees wag their heads at your conceit;
how were you so foolish to even start?
You brought walking shoes to a hiking-boot fight.
Precipitous paths mock over-confidence.
Now might be the time to ask, pray for light.
Nothing left but plead that someone toss a rope.
Struggling, doubting, crying, help out of reach—
then faith’s fibers fan out securing hope.
Storms frighten with hail we can’t withstand.
Anchors steady boats, gravity holds earth
but you—you are stardust in his hand.