And Yet…

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Alone we watch last leaves of autumn fall upon this world
Fearing stark winter follows icy breath in hand.
Alone we watch the fleeting sun rise and set its measure of time
Believing one day the frost shall melt at the coming.
Alone we ponder and learn of wonders withheld,
And yet, at small space, from our present eyes
Alone we partake as one that peeps through a slit at a waiting world of wonder
One that is warmed with thoughts and emotions as yet unformulated.
For light streams through in colored glory from worlds beyond if we still ourselves to listen
Soft words of comfort echo through chasms formed by love long ago
Yet still they calm our senses , refresh our vision, as a fresh wind from the mountain.
Stop, look up, and we will see fresh vision here with God with we…

(While troubled and pained by recent attacks in London and in Syria I came across this old poem and found comfort.)

In search of love.

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Perhaps it was a fairytale,
This thing which they called love.
This thing that though intangible,
Was heralded above
The normal humdrum sphere of life.
A dream upon the wing,
Romantic, heady, streaming
Filling emptiness within.
She sought it much with eager heart
And quickly running feet,
Yet fingers seemed to grasp at mist
Its substance failed to meet
Until at last she lingered
And in a twilight’s song
A voice came softly singing
What she’d evaded all along.
She noticed other voices
Soft pleading like her own,
They had no loved one with them
They suffered all alone.
And tending to their plight
She quickly came enmeshed
In a love that was so blessed.
She’d found the very best.