When God Walks in Casually
WHEN GOD WALKS IN CASUALLY
Rain stormed across I-90, sheeting the air
with a glad, intemperate pounding.
In the Berkshires the weather was in impish riot.
Red taillights danced. On the wet pavement
white dashes blinked, defining the lanes.
The Blandford rest stop offered a refuge.
I pulled in to wait out the capricious deluge.
In the noon dusk my umbrella pushed at the flood above.
I ducked into a refreshment room to squint
at machines of coffee, soda, and snacks.
A woman stood choosing, dollar in hand.
Splashing in, a man stamped the wet off his shoes.
“Dark in here!” Spoke tender, like he had kids at home.
I nodded. I had accepted the dark,
assuming no power to banish it.
He checked around, flipped a switch,
and chanted cheerfully, “Let there be light!”
The woman turned in pleased surprise.
I grinned, said. “I’m awed.”
And it wasn’t just the control
he’d exerted over the dark.
He had related with strangers met by chance
as he would with family, like we belonged.
You want such a man as the dad next door,
sure your neighbor is lucky with a lover
who looks for the switch that lights her.
I placed coins for cookies, though the sweetness
that would keep me alert the rest of the drive
was of the divine.
The rain was letting up. We went three ways.
When God walks in casually, you can’t keep him.
