Another misty moment more,
a cloud of light my heart cannot comprehend.
Has it truly slipped through my trembling fingers
Do I clutch hopelessly
like the trees trying to grasp the passing winds,
begging to be born aloft,
carried in gentle hands
to some distant country called peace,
only to be blasted by the onslaught,
bared of all hastily-grown defenses
and shrouded in a snowy blanket
of cold oblivion?
the trees are graced,
for they continue to stand
though weighed down and cast in rushing glory,
with gentle hollows and spread branches
where a passing zephyr may take refuge awhile,
and the winds may always find
So I’ll let this wind blow,
this stream of words and dreams
too swift to savor,
and I’ll spread my palms
to catch what gusts of grace may come
to ease my weary soul awhile.
I’ll open my heart
to these fellow pilgrims,
and perhaps see mirrored within
a hollow kept warm and ready
for my presence.
And when the snows fall
and blanket my eyes with blindness,
I will fall out of myself,
this dense wall I call my defense,
and let the love that was always there
carry me far away
to that distant country called peace.