Thrasher's Call

When ruptured skies of mem’ry dumped their rain, the flood of years eroded solid ground, ‘til every stable place my soul had found was gone. The long years’ reservoirs of pain unloaded all at once into my brain and I erupted too. My heart felt drowned; I begged for answer, but couldn’t hear a sound — would I even accept if You’d explained? What could I do, but wait ‘til ache relented? So I tended rotten roots, and sorrow’s toil slowly yielded growth, and clearing sky at last brought me your gentleness extended on winds that said: “a seed must fall to soil, if it would bear good fruit, and die.”