As the sun sets in the west
I stand alone on the shore of the placid, still lake
that covers so much of God's brown soil?
And I wonder if the sky has an end?.
if the clouds feel white and fluffy?
if the wind ever gets lost?
if the bird ever gets frightened
of soaring so high?
The wind ruffles my hair sweetened by its trip
across the fresh virgin water?
bringing refreshment once to my face
twice to my soul, three times to my spirit?
It rustles the maple leaves making them
angrily protest the awakening of their slumber,
loudly calling to each other in synchronized
wind tunes that only the trained lover of nature
can hear and understand?
The sun extinguishes its brilliant fury into the
now still ink pool washing gently upon the banks of
weathered stone and smooth brown driftwood?leaving
behind only the distant cousin named dusk?
who meanders aimlessly for a few moments before
paying final homage to the now still ink pool?
Night descends with black finality as the
creatures gather in the rustling wind,
seeking the life giving water that now lies still again
as the wind retreats to its hidden abode where
no man ever dares go in this life?
by Terry Read Blankenship
