The sky is crying. Jewel like tears leaking through broken shafts of a flat face. Clouds rush in and out, opportunists wanting something for nothing, rainbows out of a void, skittles and pots of gold.
Palm fronds nod, gentlemen like in their stiff spines, soft gestures, curved arms arching down like polite smiles, well trimmed eyebrows. Roof tiles catch everything, thirsty in their porous bones, darkness revealed through their crimson coats once they drank. Tears of regrets.
Jesus says, no one comes to the Father except through me. And other line drawing prounouncements. Then he threw himself on the cross, and cast down rain, blurring the lines between heaven and earth, sin and death, letting things blend. Letting Grace, rise. Grace - God's Righteousness At Christ's Expense.
Her roses bend their necks to concede to the rain, but smiles in between the downpours, and rise up with jewels in between their crimson pedals. Royal Highness. Apt marketers at the garden center named her thus.
His face remains hidden. His words lingers. Puzzles to be solved, treasure boxes to be opened. The search tires me out, she says, but we shall rest and continue.