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The Imaginarium:  A creative wasteland

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The Patience of Trees

3/7/2008

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In the life I lived yesterday, gone as the ashes
of the bridges I'd crossed to wooded places
I'd conquered and no longer wished to go
Having used them I let them burn
What good were they, but to illuminate my prospects
for the next steps, and the next, and the next
            No, I cannot go back
            And must never look behind
            Ahead, ahead!
            A race to the horizon
            Go the ardent steps of my life; 
                    And nearer my death
                    softly, softer become the steps.

In the life I live now, familiar and true
I walk a forest of proud grown trees
I did not seed,
But where I began to linger,
Hesitating... at the beauty
Of height and things larger than me;
Learning
That I must look up
To a Sky above
I know exists but cannot see
What good is it
But for the Faith I hold on to
For the next steps, and the next, and the next
                        Oh, for a moment longer
                        Here, beneath these boughs
                        Above, above!
                        Something watches 
                        The measured steps of my life
                                With forgiveness and love
                                softly, softer become the steps

In the life I'll live tomorrow, promised as the dawn
I will tread more humbly upon the ground
Learned and patient
Though others may pass
And carry fire with them, reckless and rash
I will not fight or try to restrain
Or get them to see
This forest, for the trees....

What good is it,
But to seed the ashes; and grow trees for their return
For the next steps, and the next, and the next.  
                         Then, when my purpose is found
                        I will leave this life and my labored steps
                        Behind, behind. 
                               And pray others may learn the beauty  
                               Of patience and respect
                                                                softly, softer become the steps.
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    Nakedness

    For many years, I hid my poetry and writings.  It would seem that fear of judgment was an obstacle, the shadow of which I was all-too complacent to hide in.     

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