Meditation (revised): a Wyoming sky during a summer rain storm

These clouds are the stuff of angels and dreams,

     the meniscus through which all that is hoped for must pass.

            Pregnant with the condensation of every troubled soul,

                        all pain is transformed with the passage of time

                                    and then released back upon us

                                                as tiny little drops of benediction.  

            I stand here alone

            and wait

            for the cleansing to begin.