Circles Made of Stone

As we journey wide in life On strange ranges far from home, We often stop and ponder Old burnt circles made of stone. They are last meager remnants Of some campfire long ago— Where pards and tired travelers Would share a hot cup of joe. The fire would blaze but briefly Then be just smoke as they’d part— To rise again down the trail Where another fire would start. Yes, they’d slowly gather rocks And form that new ring of stone— Build a blaze to ease the night, So they’d not be all alone. But those days are mostly gone With stone circles left behind— Cowboys seldom come this way And good pards are hard to find. And while fires now seem to die And a cold north wind does moan— There’s always comfort in a fire In our circle made of stone. And so we all go our way, Build rings all the farther— Honor roots and family, But most of all, our Father. Yes, now we’ve come full circle— Return to earth as it lays— A circle of completion— Like brief dust of earthly days.