They taught me at Sunday school
that the Spirit’s wind; and cool.
On a night cool and windy,
my eyes were wide and flinty.
Through translucent window pane,
jiggled a confused weather vane,
shy which direction to face;
excitement set to race.
Soon the weather vane saw me,
and thrust an arrow at me.
Then heavy patter patter;
the pane began to shatter.
The wind came whistling aloud,
sweet music my ears allowed.
Chilled, I felt the Spirit come:
the room was now wet, I, numb.
As if in a distant dream,
I heard a wren sing, or scream;
a duck quacked, in obvious thrill
of nearby soldiering drill.
My sleepy eyes blinked; I stirred
as the warm morning rays shirred
my thoughts in folds of wonder
at a storm without thunder.
I peeped through the gaping pane;
the sun, calm along its lane,
kept smiling as my mind puzzled,
with my understanding muzzled.
I recalled the Sunday school;
the Spirit could be indeed cool.