First you ask the question:
Who is my hero? Do I know?
Then I must mention,
What do they want?
What of this challenge
Is there to daunt?
How, then, is he or she
Pursuing this goal?
What is their heart’s key?
What are the stakes?
And to get to this goal,
Will he or she do what it takes?
Do they reach the goal?
And if not, what will
Happen if this goal
Is not reached?
What if their mission
Is suddenly breached?
Also, we must add
Will they stay focused?
If indeed the goal had
Been reached, is it
After all what they truly
Wanted, or must they admit
Their goal was wrong?

My ankles wobble,
And my legs tire,
But the strength
That they require
Was there, no doubt.
I am not a crier.
No, my horse,
He ran like fire.

All I feel is the power,
The wind on my face
As I sit, towered
Above this place.
I feel the strength
Of his muscles as
They stretch leg’s length
And then once again – as
A drunk with his drinking–
He pulls the ground
Towards him, linking
Each stride to howling hound
As it calls up ahead.
His eagerness proves
What this horse was bred
For as his speed improves
And I find myself
Flying, floating, soaring,
As one finds oneself
When on a horse, exploring.

If you’re to be one kind of tree, which one
Would you pick? So many there are – tall, short,
There’s weak or strong, but I know there is none
As the tall aspen tree, and that’s the sort
I’d wish to be. It makes such music, art
And it’s a tree of color and of life
Peel off its bark, and you get its heart.
A thing of beauty amidst all the strife.
It’s not like pine trees, oak trees, or others,
No, it stands, thin and tall, like a dancer.
Together they stand, united brothers.
It seems if they ask God, He then answers.
This is the tree that I would want to be –
An aspen tree, for that is just like me.

Oh, close your eyes,
Can’t you hear the music?
Listen, it cries.  
But, no, you’re blind, blind, blind.
It beckons you,
A dream, a hope, alive.
Look at the view,
Can’t you see it, my son?
But now it’s gone,
Forever lost, lost, lost.

This beauty comes from
Brokenness, not some
Perfect life I’ve made
It is more a trade –
Death for life, true hope,
Pains and trials, my rope.
To trust Him to help me
Grow up, in Him, free,
Into who He wants.
(Though temptation taunts)
I fall, broken, then
He loves once again.
As shepherd to lamb,
Who He says I am,
That is whom He makes,
Whatever the stakes.
I am His daughter,
With Living Water,
And I am broken,
For me, He’s spoken.
I am *beautiful.

Go to bed.
Go to sleep.
Talk to God.
Don’t count sheep.
I love you. :)
But don’t forget
That He loves
You more, Jeanette.