oh, when the reckless Wind is done,
all of the world becomes too drenched
because when Wind sobs, rain, it pours—
but flowers wilt, though hearts may bloom,
and clouds do smile, yet feel so blue
while Sunlight’s hidden, pure and gold.

my dearest Sunlight, smiling gold—
He prays, “dear God, let it be done,
I might peak through—make all this blue—"
but He refuses; we stay drenched,
nay, we wilt where we once could bloom,
and on, still on, the sadness pours.

but here, inside, the champagne pours—
it bubbles; on my tongue, blooms gold;
too, conversation—it will bloom,
we pray the storm is never done
yet we’ll relent and then be drenched.
the sky and all our souls are blue.

oh, it’s a lonely shade of blue
cobalt, sapphire, like paint, it pours
like a dream—the canvas is drenched
with no remaining room for gold,
but the Artist is not quite done—
He illustrates a rose in bloom.

so tranquil, she’s like joy in bloom—
her blood red stark against the blue,
the rose is resentfully done
yet rain feels no mercy and pours
on and on; yet a spark of gold—
like all our hopes, it too, is drenched.

does He see we are downright drenched?
does He know we will never bloom?
that He has tarnished all our gold?
because of Him, we all feel blue?
and for a flash, He doesn’t pour
anymore paint, but is He done?

what was so drenched, no more is blue.
and now, we bloom; so now, joy pours
pure, silky, gold—now, He is done.