Quieting the Agnostic (old unpublished poem)

I have the quixotic urge

to steal thunder from the rain;

to take the pain

from our tears. 

To secure and sculpt it;

to create an elation all my own,

so that in a god’s honor

I can set the thing free. 

Because I’ve come to know

that everything sad or lost

is not really sad or lost

when the day comes;

when the truth comes. 

     And all the cold stars

     are a million degrees.