A glance of hidden sunlight, the earth, its seasons due,
The sighing of the willow tree, the ocean, stillness, blue.
As swallows, they’re departing, the skies, now home to few,
The wintery air approaching, the leaves, their hour, adieu.
Ever soft and feathery light, what blessed food is this?
Ground, the rough and broken grain, now, smooth as satin kiss.
Granted for our eating, what no angel could resist,
Sweet manna for the journey, His flesh, the Eucharist.
“Man ate the bread of the angels” ~ Psalm 78:25
“My flesh is real food” ~ John 6:55
See, the vibrant colours, across the painted sky,
Splash of red and yellow, a tinge of pink, so shy.
Capping off, what blessed hour, when grace, its tide rose high,
Then out to sea, the countless stars, for all, a grateful sigh.
Won’t you venture forth with me, a brave adventure, find,
All the sights and sounds and smells, the dreary world, behind.
To seek instead that treasure rich, the deepest forest, wind,
And gain a friend who’s precious, true, the purest gold refined.
O Hear the softly falling rain, their kiss, the earth sublime,
Promise of the seedling new, arise from the dirt and grime.
Or the ever artful wind, from sea to the heavens climb,
Both young and old, life’s circle true, bound, the cords of time.
Come, stoke this slumbering furnace, again its bellows strain,
A trial by tempest fire, at last, I’m alive again.
Breathing, heaving, burning, with each turn, a deep refrain,
Then even as all is ashes, o how bright, the glory gain!
Trees, their swaying branches, the rustling of the leaves,
Brilliance of the summer sky, the earth in quiet, heaves.
Ears, in earnest seeking, the whispering corn, their sheaves,
The distant cattle lowing, the child, his mother cleaves.
Will I gaze again the kindly curves of your sweet and gentle face,
Or touch that softly flowing mane, your hair, its fragrance trace.
With eyes that spy a warming hope, as spring through winter, grace,
And hips that sway with flowing beat, a pause in time and space.
Do you know how much I love you, to count indeed the ways,
How every single dewdrop, a tinge of the sun’s own rays.
While the trees in the countryside, adore, the flowers gaze,
As I, they too, your loveliness, the hours, they turn to days.
Oh twist me round your finger, your puppet, let me be,
Docile to your prompting, a captive yet so free.
For what indeed is freedom, to which heaven should I flee,
In you, I’ve found my resting, your hand, the lock and key.