In the beginning, there was the voice of the Father
Speaking not with words, but music, rising,
Falling as does thunderous beauty,
Parting a small opening in the soul
Where only tears could flow.
Then last night’s gentle rain
Seemed to heal as it brought relief,
Greening to this wondrous world….
Slowly, beyond ability of conscious mind to grasp,
Sleeping as it tends to do through night.
This morning when I woke, there was
Mist upon the lake, floating without limits,
Beyond boundaries imposed by any human,
Touching blinking eyes, the naked skin of body—
Cooling as every thirsty pore was satisfied.
But the marvel had not finished
As Old Buttery Fingers of the Sun reached out,
Parted floating fog— brought clarity
As first the mountain emerged,
Then peaceful lake reflected patient beauty.
This beauty did not thunder, but was gentle—
Quiet morning light told stories long forgotten
Of small island in the lake.
Perhaps the promise of the dream
Had not come true, but there is still time.
Meanwhile, the world awakens—
Chorus of birds disturb the nesting swans—
They spread white wings and swim together,
Paddling furiously so hidden turtles
Will not divide and kill their young.
All I now know is that I am not alone.
There is no need to worry about
What seems yet unprepared by wordless prayer.
I am in love. I could not ask for more
Than time enough to share this love with you.