The day rises.
As do the blades of grass,
The flowers,
And the mists on the river.

Sunrise services are my memory,
Spelled oh so cleverly
As Sonrise.
And 6 a.m. for a little fella
Was another form of rising not hailed in any book
Or ballad.
But a family requirement that I wished would end.

He wished it would end as well.
And it did.
The longest three hours in history
That are now ours to behold.

Till we rise.

There Will be God

When all of life's
mysteries
and
wonders
and inner revelations,
resolutions,
and
relative ramblings
have no source.
When you realize
that
the conclusions
you reached
were just another beginning
and
the music is quieted
by the vacant poetry
of the end.
There will be God

Except for the Star
The travelers huddled in the cold night.
A lengthy journey almost at an end.
A journey fueled by hope
And threatened by the madness of a king.
They tired.
And often wondered whether their chase
Was real
Or if it was yet another means of
Squandered wealth.

Except for the star.

It was close.
Bethlehem was tomorrow's end.

Now the return.
The child had been all and more,
And their gifts were received in awe
As if they too were signs
Needed to assure of the offspring.
That was yesterday.
An event now just a memory
Taking on the unreal
Line of a tapestry that unfolded in a dream.

Except for the star.

The ages would tell and retell their story.
And many would believe.
And many would not believe.
What indeed would drive
Monarchs to live with camels under the sky
For but a glimpse of
A small boy?
Prophet's art is lost.
The hearkening of madmen.

Except for the star.
And except for the King.