Wrath

Softly

beautifully

it began to fall.

Listening to it

hit the windows

you could hear

a rhythm grow,

lull you to sleep.

The next morning

it was still pouring.

Heavier,

like thousands of

tiny fists

banging on every

surface they could find.

We began to worry

as the days passed

without relent.

I wondered if we had

angered God.

I remembered the

nice woman at Sunday School

telling us about his wrath.

He seemed like

someone whose bad side

you would never want to be on.

The waters began to rise

in the streets.

Nothing we did could stop it.

Fists,

thousands and thousands of

tiny fists

all begging to get in.

We all lost our homes that year.

I never could figure out

what we had done to anger him.