The Hand of God

Navigating the broken wind A monarch dips southward, Crossing the wasted field, Drifting past the rustic ruins Of a deserted farmhouse. The early afternoon breeze Plays the antique structure Like a Stradivarius, Riddled and seasoned By the Master himself. A pale yellow leaf, Curled and burnt, Stumbles downstream like a tiny junk Freshly thrown to the cold black brook That runs the thorny gauntlet between The barley fields and the Orient. A doe emerges From the fleeting shadows Marking the edge of day. A stag follows Then freezes, Drawn to the forest floor By the sound Of a crashing chestnut. It is a time Of celebration and feast, But there is a tension in the air As the frost stings And drives the worm Deeper into the earth. There is an unspoken restlessness, The calm before the battle cry, Before the winter mongrel returns With its icy blade and maniacal fury. But the evening is still, As the last breath of autumn Tints the western sky With pink and amber, Warming my spirit And strengthening my sanity. Aurora flirts with my imagination As the last light fades And the constellations re-awaken. I scan the infinite space, And in the spark of a distant star I glimpse the face of God.