I think about how my feet have never
Touched the soft moss in that distant forest
Or how my hands have not felt the tear-like vines
Of the weeping trees in the foreign jungle
My legs have never strained to carry
My body up the side of the snow kissed
Mountainside. These places are all so
Familiar to me and yet I have not
Breathed in the sweet smell of the moss
Nor felt the rough skin of the vine
Nor tasted the pure snow of the mountain.
Yet I possess such a clear picture, such a
Beautiful image in my mind; with all the
Familiarity of my mother's soft face.

I couldn't tell you
Just how many times
I've walked through the
Pitch black aisles of these
Woods and heard them
Whispering their secrets of
Eternity and of a life more
Grounded and roots that grow
Into the core, bending, some
Breaking, but most standing,
Glistening as they reach
Towards the soft autumn sun.

What is the sum of
Man's wisdom?
Stars gaze into the
Earth and no one
Hides from the
Glare of the sun and yet
What are we, but a
Shadow under it's face?

The cloud's vapor collects
And dissipates, and so is the
Life of man. What more then,
Could the words of his
Mouth amount to, or the
Actions of his mortal flesh?


Knowledge is created and
Destroyed continually.
Much less is the breath of
He who whispers it to be
Exalted. So breath what
You are on my skin and
Let the dew of your soft
Words collect on my flesh,
Only to be erased by the
Heat of the sun.