By Michael Finch
I drift in the slowness of a dying day
my face turns to the winds,
carrying through the maples and mulberries,
of the sweet smell of primrose and sage,
Listening to bird song of warblers and meadowlarks,
watching rabbits, roadrunners run free,
fleeing the coyote calls in moonlit skies,
night closes and all surrounds into quietness folds.
The cool early spring breeze blown,
the scent of rain, closing in,
the darkening cumulus clouds,
low and rolling over the treeless low hills beyond.
The world spun fast, loosened in hastiness speed,
alone, adrift and forlorn,
searching, something, anything to hold,
answers for timeless questions but naught.
Overwhelmed, worn thin and spent,
into retreat all is given over to Him,
closing of eyes into a breeze fills me,
full of silence and calm enveloped all.