My Lot

The puddles shine like glass on dampened, trampled trails; the rivers run each day where the forest stays and stales— well fit, they say, for me. But I can hear the sea. Perhaps the pond that rests among the browning hills? The crystal lake that skirts the mountain’s cedar frills? Enough for all but me […]

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Puddles, unlikely windows to the sky, Small, impure, vanishing with passing day, Trace a gaze-inviting glimpse Of the grandeur of the heavens. May the Grandeur of Heaven Trace Himself on me, making me, Though small, impure, vanishing with passing day, An unlikely window to the Sky.

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