Senseless Clods

Warm and caressive the rays of the sun
penetrate me, the senseless clod.
I must have roots in there, living roots
but somehow they seem to be smothered by the sod.

They must yearn to break free
they must yearn to be drenched with sunshine
and feel that which quenched their thirst.

But the sun only warms, it has no power to move
no power to shape, no power to groove
new form on the essence of me the clod.

But the wind forces change
and the rain strips away
all that is loose
from misuse and decay.

So perhaps for my roots
there's salvation in storm.
Perhaps when they're bared
they'll be able to enjoy
the warm caress of the sun.
And even be able to gleefully respond
to the bright new world they, in there darkness
desired to belong.

Thank God for the storm and the hope that it brings
to senseless clods
and sensitive things.