Eyes of fire set deep in gaunt, sunken face
Sun-burnt skin over bones stretched tight
Wild mane glimmers with holy light
The lonely prophet barefoot runs his race

Sat down on uncarved stone on the salt plains
In wilderness heat off’ring prayer
As arid winds tousle his hair
The sun will set, night falls, yet he remains

Chanting psalms over wastes in desert haze
Fasting, searching, waiting for One
Sighing beneath the beating sun
Searing bruised soles walking sands all ablaze

Heart heavy with the taunts of his brother
Rememb’ring mighty works long past
To the old promise holding fast
Dreaming new hope for Zion his mother

Battered by visions of hail and thunder
Summoned, plague and blight to predict
God’s edict none may contradict
Tyrants to fell and kingdoms to sunder

In threadbare raiment of camel’s tired coat
Commands for rended heart he heeds
A call from empty words to deeds
Found wanting now the blood of lamb and goat

Glancing past the veil, lo! above the dome
The glory of Him on the throne
To whom is worship due alone
Intoning a strain to sing exiles home

The noise-choked soul, in her dismay
May rest her head upon the hay
Sleep in peace in the poor manger
Beside the Babe, free from danger
Her heart beating beside His head
He’ll gladly share His lowly bed

The fretful soul may, like a dove,
Fly far away to join her love
On the mountain, there all alone
Flesh of His flesh, bone of His bone
Once joined to Him, she’ll never roam
And He will build for them a home

The burdened soul may in the road
Lie unmoving, a wooden load
And with love’s crucified embrace
He’ll run for her His ****** race
In His strong arms He will take her
Shoulder her cares, ne’er forsake her

The good God who made all things that are visible
Being good, formed not only mere rock, tree, and bird
But placed in their midst the man, who is risible
So that he may delight even in the absurd

For man, wand’ring the antediluvian wood
Buried in the swaddling shade of the ancient trees
Consumed with wondrous awe, all reverential should
Doubtless alone fall idolatrous on his knees

But lo, beautiful mirth, a sweeter, gentler law,
Makes him rather roar, as into laughter he’ll burst
Humor inescapable once kneeling he saw
That the bashful old forest did laugh at him first

Towering, dancing in winds that cannot bow him,
Fierce and ***** in the face of the wild screaming gale,
A legion of fluttering leaves blown full, a thousand tiny sails,
The great tree stands unbowed, the true mast of the world.

Twigs snap and branches creak, the clamor of nature’s wars,
Roots roar under the strain, tearing earth to grip buried anchors,
But the trunk does not tremble, he dares the strong east wind,
Ancient arboreal pride silently scorning childish zephyrs.

A true Tree does not cower before the sky’s elemental armies,
His memory is too long, he calls the airy spirits each by name,
Spritely bravado cannot prevail over noble wooden belligerence,
High-born timber that was old before the gods of men were born.

Lady Hill wears a dress woven of lichen and grasses
Waving glad with limbs of wind-blown trees to each who passes,
Grandfather Valley returns your greeting with echoed call
While with ancient sloping arms he reaches, embracing all,
Your brother, the rolling Plain, his hair wet with morning dew
Reclines amidst the rabbit-holes, promising something new,
Friend River surges laughing at tadpoles, their comic style
One of countless wild jokes which live, breathe, and dance without guile,
Tribes of toads together take up the chant they all know well
While fam’lies of crickets sing of secrets they have to tell,
And Old Mountain’s granite grimace becomes a sort of smile
As the clouds that crown him blush, bright King Sol setting meanwhile,
When all these wonders you are promised, and even more shown,
How canst thou, O weary traveler, ever feel alone?

Give me one word, two words
And we’ll give the thing a name
Learn how to point a finger
And we’ll find someone to blame

Give me one thought, two thoughts
And we’ll think the whole thing through
Craft a sentence punctuated
We’ll decide what will be true

Give me one minute, two minutes
No time that you will miss
We’ll make an art of waste, you’ll see
We’ll manufacture bliss

Or

Take one heart, your heart
And mine will make for two
Love will make them whole again
A sailboat we will crew

We’ll cut ties with the mainland
As one set out to sea
Knots undone, sails unfurled
The deep waters, you, and me

With hook and line we’ll win our meals
We’ll bake beneath the sun
And life, for all its labors hard
Will be already won

Weathered of snows and rains and smokes and fires,
Veteran of storms and gales and floods and squalls,
Seasoned of winters and summers and frosts and thaws,
The tired tree, unflagging, rests not.

Stripped of twigs, bark, and even limbs to dry for fueling men’s fires,
Leaves inhaled by ants and the young of every moth and butterfly,
Sweet sap, sylvan life’s blood, drained to gild the breakfast plate,
The giving tree, robbed, remains no less generous.

Gnawed alive by armies of tunneling insects in their divisions,
Bark scored and gouged with signs and graffiti and lover’s initials,
The heart of the forest smiles, the woodland holds no grudges,
The dying tree, patient and immortal, grows on.

With every breeze rattling branches scratch out a shout,
Gusts of cloud’s breath arouse the lumbering orchestra,
Wind is the baton in the invisible conductor’s hand,
Choirs of leaves rub out hymns composed of rustling joy.

T’was the woodlands softly chanted the new-born earth’s first song,
The sighs of sylvan movement hum and thrum, scrape and scruff,
Harmonizing with the gargling river’s current chorus,
Nature’s opera, now whispering, now roaring, ever most alive.

Wind whistling through mountain passes, another fair refrain,
While songbirds supplement with their master melodies,
A lullaby to rock sleepless, anxious men to reverent rest,
To teach consistent music opposite their chaotic, chronic noise.