BREATHE The fog lies heavy on tree and field Drip, drip- the sound of morning dew The gossamer work of spider’s threads Is seen from window’s view. The hurried cars on yonder lane Neither pause, nor care, nor see They speed and race at a frenzied pace -Eyes on the time they keep. Just as those cars, my thoughts are swirled Blood pulsing through my veins The rushing- heading to each nerve -That binds the stress within. A web of haze entraps my mind And all around grows blurred and weary But I have hope in noontime’s sun To lift that fog so I see clearly. When my tears, just as the dew Begin to gather, then to fall I sit outside and inhale beauty And breathe the handiwork of God. Lee O. McGee 12.2014
Posted on: Tue, 09 Dec 2014 12:31:30 +0000
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