when the storm Kicks up and nothing is ours, we go chasing After all we're certain to lose

Is God being or pure force? The wind 

Or what commands it? When our lives slow 

And we can hold all that we love, it sprawls 

In our laps like a gangly doll. When the storm 

Kicks up and nothing is ours, we go chasing 

After all we're certain to lose, so alive—

Faces radiant with panic. 

 

[Tracy K. Smith {1972- } 'The Weather in Space', from Such Color]