I came to you, oh mighty land
Asleep to everything at hand
Lethargic from more southern air
Not yet awakened, unaware
The panorama I beheld
Composed a view unparalleled
A pastor with his best endeavor
Could preach forever and forever
And never say with words as clear
As the aura of this atmosphere
In the awe inspiring craggy peaks
And the chasms as His silence speaks
Where His creation stirs conviction
That brings a balming benediction
To one that hungers for a proof
Here, upon the planets roof

The year turns slowly, winter grinds on.
Old leaves rotting down,
not yet nourishing new growth.
But the trees know.
Spring will come, bringing less for some.
Yearn for the light, willing it to shine on them.
Pour goodness and grace, for all, not some.
Spring comes, let winter be done.
Let them be the happy ones.

While strolling down a river heading seaward
I stopped beneath a sweeping willow tree
And lay peacefully gazing upward
Till slumber’s charms warmly captured me

An idyllic scene that seldom could be rivaled
All round, nature’s gifts were freely poured
And yet in the midst of untold beauty
Was a strident note of sad silent discord

Oh, why weepest thou willow
In this beautiful field of green
What memories create your unhappiness
What sorrows have you seen?

Can a willow yearn to meet another willow?
Does loneliness drive your arms so wide?
Does the lush, soothing facade of your canopy
Conceal a broken heart, deep inside?

Sometime later I awoke in thoughtful silence
Oh Willow, why does’t thou weep
What were your sapling aspirations
What sad and sorry secrets do ye keep?

I wonder if the sap is stirring yet,
If wintry birds are dreaming of a mate,
If frozen snowdrops feel as yet the sun
And crocus fires are kindling one by one:
Sing, robin, sing;
I still am sore in doubt concerning Spring.

I wonder if the springtide of this year
Will bring another Spring both lost and dear;
If heart and spirit will find out their Spring,
Or if the world alone will bud and sing:
Sing, hope, to me;
Sweet notes, my hope, soft notes for memory.

The sap will surely quicken soon or late,
The tardiest bird will twitter to a mate;
So Spring must dawn again with warmth and
bloom,
Or in this world, or in the world to come:
Sing, voice of Spring,
Till I too blossom and rejoice and sing.

The biting wind combs through my hair;
The salty water stings,
The crashing waves soak through my jeans;
The sun on seagulls' wings.

A shark's tooth swims below the waves,
It settles on my toe.
I ****** it up before the waves
Can send it back below.

I learn the tooth, each groove, each edge,
So small, the blackest black
I hold it tight, can't let it go,
I cannot throw it back.

A hunter great did own this tooth,
So many battles fought.
The tooth of such a great white shark,
The king that can't be caught.

He left his mark, his legacy
Amid our human air.
Born three million years ago,
His only bone his only heir.

If I could ever be so great
To win such endless worth,
I'd want to leave my token, just
To leave my mark on earth.

The shark, he wanted just the same
He's gone, his tooth's with me
His spirit should be kept alive
So I gave his tooth back to the sea.

Setting sail across the windswept plains,
Air rushing by, as does the land below,
Wings arching, Slicing through the thin air,
Covering distances unknown.

Searching always for that magnetic compass,
Guiding lines of power encompassing this world.
Soaring over lakes, seas, oceans.
Driven by instinct every spring and fall.

Escaping the winter winds rushing down from the north,
to warmer climes, less frigid temperatures.
Returning yearly to mate, and raise their young,
to continue the cycle, ever moving, ever changing and unchanging.

Traveling the hollows,
Of this deep, damp, mountain,
Seeking treasure in mother earth,
Placed eons ago in times unknown.

Lanterns shedding light,
Illuminating the dark depths,
Casting elongated shadows,
On the dark tunnelled walls

Soft gold metal woven in tendrils
Through ponderous tons of granite.
Given away by the presence of
Shards of broken quartz,
Shining dully at my feet.

Why is this golden metal so precious?
Why would men give their lives for it?
Indeed, beautiful, rare, mysterious.
But I find myself captured by the reflections,
In these quartz crystals.

Not only quartz, but diamonds,
Emeralds, rubies, sapphires.
Heated and compressed over millenia,
Awaiting discovery in mother earth's,
Deep dark recesses.

Brought to the surface,
Faceted, polished, mounted.
Dazzling, sparkling color,
Eye-catching, elegant, mesmerizing.

Jewels.

Sitting down by the pond the other evening,
Taking in the sunset and listening to how nature puts her children to bed,
I happened to notice my amphibian friends.

Now, I love sounds, loud ones, soft ones, booming, and whispers.  
Got a right fetish for listening to nature.

As I sat there entranced, my ears started picking out different frog calls.  
You know, them boy frogs trying to sound all handsome and friendly to get a wink from their girlfriends.  
And not just the frogs either, ya know, there's some toads out there too.

I was hearing big ole Bullfrogs, boomin' louder than a drum in a parade.
Tiny spring peepers, with their loud high pitched sharp peeps.

There was Fowler's Toads out there too, sounding like ole Henry stuck a knife in his wife's chest, and she screamed for her life.

Them there grey tree frogs, well they are somethin'.  
Chatterin' like a monkey missin' his bananas.

And don't get me started on those green frogs, boy howdy, they can twang with the best of em.  
Right funny if you don't mind me saying.

But, that trilling those American toads do, out shining those short trillin' Western Chorus frogs evra time, is somethin' else.  
Why they can hold a note pert near a full three minutes.

Never can tell how rich wild life is around ya til ya sit a spell and take a listen.  
You may not see 'em out there, but shore nuf, life's a going on.