King David’s bard once sang about
ceaseless cycles of the tides,
a time to hope and time for doubt
as we the cresting waves must ride.

Once trusted boatsmen stopped to ford
the deep oceans that divide
and swung their oars in wrath’s discord
to scorch with flames of pride:

I walked across an iron bridge
that had once been made a wall.
Not so far back was it the edge
of two worlds to rivals called.

The warhawks of those bitter days
that swung hard over seas of steel
returned to their unspoiled state
of ivory doves whose touch can heal.

Some doves now blacken in their dirge,
their talons whetted for the **** —
it’s worth recalling when this bridge
its joining purpose re-fulfilled.

Fell waves will crest and seas will smooth,
our tossed ark will come to rest
upon a place where psalms will soothe
us where we by doves are blessed.

A starless swart of night
has draped its murky veil
above my temple mount —
but the house of holies’
lifting light lingers on.

Its window eye shines bright
to lead upon the trail
that guides me to a fount —
its waters cool and ease
until new break of dawn.

In times long past, the builder made
a forest temple in the shade
of tall oaks, maples, locusts fair,
each carved stone an unspoken prayer.

There amongst the autumn whispertrees,
I open the old temple gate with ease
and hear the trees sing psalms of solace,
to partake in this painted place’s promise.

To tarry here with trees well dressed
is where I my newfound faith confess,
communing with colors in tailored hues
and with the sacred scent of life imbued.

Stuck on blackened spikes
and under stormy seas.
“Let’s go for a hike,”
my wife said to me.

Her sliver of sunlight
breaks through my fog,
a sparkling invite
to go for a little jog.

On a bed of autumn leaves
and crisp wisps of dew
the trees us receive
while I from black withdrew.

The flicking fire in the hearth
pops and cracks a wispy smile
while its embers send their warmth
into the stone house for a long while.

The chimney curls with silky smoke
that snugly signals a cozy place.
The walls are paneled with old thick oak
to safely hold us in wood’s embrace.

This warm retreat’s stout red door
is made and unlocked by my inner eye.
Its stone foundation and sturdy floor
are crafted well for brittle times.

Pull up a chair and join me here
in this secret safest place of all —
it’s in each of us, in constance near:
Take some rest in your heart’s great hall.

In the house by the lake
sat a man of few means.
He dwelled on his mistakes
that had left his life lean.

In that house in a place
by rippled waters’ edge
he saw just the faces
in the photos on the ledge.

Outside rang the birdsong
and the sun sent her rays;
the trees stood there strong
and the clouds went their ways.

But in that tiny home
a man just sat to dwell
to brood on being alone
and missed out nature’s spell.

When the changes come
will winter winds still blow?
What world will we see
as quicksilver higher flows?
When this time is past
will songbirds still be heard?
Will parents still tell children
of the bees and the birds?
Will grandchildren know about
lightning bugs in the dark?
Will lovers still know what’s meant
by butterflies in their hearts?
May those gifts that we leave
for those who come hereafter
not become the close
of this book’s final chapter.