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.
Copyright © Robert Hermann | Year Posted 2005
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