There is no time to plant,
Rush, hurry, scurry, bustle.
The syncopated rhythms of a harried existence
Push, worry, fury, tussle.
ends in death…
We are all forced to rest at some point.
It can be welcomed, not permanently resisted.
Leached of life, hardened clay
Parched ground, cracked firmament
Strip mined, scorched earth
A thousand scars rutted deep
Yet, even tortured ground can be healed by the gentle Rain
Rivulets and rivers, streams and creeks run back to their Source
Every cloud pours out its thunder
No place is untouched by the sweeping winds of change
Every quiet night, nestled in its arms
The cool light from each star descends, unanxious and watchful
The toil has ceased.
Rest reaches out to comfort each weary head and lonely heart.
Even the soil sighs its relief.
Each morning dawns as a ray of mercy, the light of grace.