The King Is Coming

I walk the dirt lane
between my house and the water.
Like an aisle that leads me slowly
to my love

My heart touches each tree
like the fingers of a girl
down the backs of pews
as I make my way to the altar

Each row standing full and tall,
with the wisdom of my elders
They know not only when to rise
but to remain standing, so still

Their King is coming.

    T

I offer thanks, anticipation
the wind replies
Like a whisper on my cheek
with promise and of nearness

A gray, slick shadow emerges
one that usually lifts it's hands in waves.
as if to reach the heavens
from the belly of the ground

Now instead consoled by a season,
smoothing the usual clutter
Deeper pools still swirl beneath
as instinct compels it to keep ebbing closer

There is another River...

The King is coming.

    T

There's a lowliness to its lapping, like
the shush only a mother knows for her child
and a recognition of being held

by thy maker

And the merriment of birds

heard overhead 
as they are sent to sing and scatter
they've got some news to tell

The falling snow; a quiet grace

As each flake is accepted or pushed aside
But anything willing to hold it 
claims a shade of white; 

Cover me

My King is coming.

    T

a blanket [of white] outstretches before me
a holiness that begs for complete surrender
the only act of worship I can muster, seems more of a gift
to sit, in awe and wonder

and then there is the Sun.
A resurrection that is new every morning.
Even when not in plain view
it is impossible to deny its existence

and the chime of a church beckons up stream
Man's best attempt to capture what God can do with words
God's creation summons a reminder
mans bell simply repeats it

Behold

Our King is coming

    T


P.S. Take this challenge!