So let us put pen to paper tonight and write a Blessing Poem. May our words create ripples of light and hope in the pond of the world.
Every Lost Highway Tells a Story
(But You Must Be Willing To Listen)
Nothing smells more like summer
than a car with a radio and
the windows turned down just so
the smell of wood and cedar
blushes the senses; late afternoon sun
penetrating a valley where the waters
of morning are still a little darker.
There's nothing more clarifying than
watching centuries-old trees arise
from the ash of foliage and earth mirth,
rambling Wood Madonna's, light gathering
between the curtained shadows of their sea-green leaf,
and the stream beyond the rolling hills of
cliff-sides made impenetrable for the foot of man
so that there nature still gathers in her grandeur
of innocence, water-foul arching the surface
like so many pieces of silver dancing in light,
deer and foal and unblemished pine cone
in colors that arise jealousy from even
the most colorful of wordsmiths and painters.
Each side-stream becoming jewel,
so many midnight Saphires set in green velvet,
frayed only by the silence of a border
of evergreen where the trees converse
like nomadic Gods from some other Earth
their wisdom reserved only for the
random passer-byer on the highway with
enough spirit-sense to marvel among the meadow.