uncountable words

He wraps himself in light as with a garment;

He stretches out the heaven like a tent

and lays the beams of his upper chambers on their waters.

He makes the clouds His chariot

and rides the wings of the wind.

He makes the winds His messengers,

 flames of fire His servants.

I look up from the book that rests in my hands and I see a picture that not even a thousand words could begin to repaint. David tried, as have many others, as do I. But what construction of my painted babbling can measure up to what only a word of God’s has brought to reality?

 I sit in a blue plastic shred of a chair, my feet scraping the cold cracked concrete of the school floor. Oh God, what a world you have created. From where I sit I can see the cold tendrils of yellow sunlight threading the needle-like trees that bridge the roof of the school to the unfertile garden. It is chilly. The sun glints and glimmers off the dew on the grass, making the ground glitter as if it were covered with snow. A soft breeze floats in from the East, heralding the sun's approach, shaking the earth in her sleep and daring her to rise to meet the day. From where I sit I watch our cold corpse of a compound warm and stretch and yawn the night from her eyes. The shadows shift. The world alights with the flame of rising dawn.