The Fortune Teller
In passing, by the fortune teller’s gaze,
he spoke of highs and lows, of fleeting days.
“Through storms of doubt, weaker hearts have bled.”
A puddle stirred unrest beneath the sky,
reflecting all the questions that passed by.
“God watches all, the strong ones too,” I said,
and in the puddle’s depth, I sought the truth—
both high and low, the restless seek their proof.
“Yet strength is but a veil where fear is fed,” he said.
His voice pulled at me through the air,
he spoke of futures tight without care.
The puddle—a mirror to the doubts that we must face.
He smiled, his eyes like embers burning low,
“The strong and weak both seek what they don’t know.
A muddled mud puddle is the human race.
In heights of power or in the lowly cast,
the restless wander, seeking truths that last.”
I noticed then, that he never mentioned Grace.
And in the puddle’s depth, I saw the proof—
Both high and low, we struggle toward the truth.
Yet it is God who sends the rain
into every life, no matter where it leads,
born of restless hopes and fragile needs.
God clouds our sight or makes it plain,
like the puddle in a pot or on the ground,
only in trusting God can truth be found.
I walked away, never to see that teller again.
WoPoLi 
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