She Trains The Sky

Crisp, clean mountain meadows,

Knee-high flowered grass slapping shins,

Burbled brook behind in depression bubbling,

Overhead the Sun feels closer, warming golden hair.

Spring sings here, as butterflies wisp on wings of wind.

Hand to summer straw-blonde strands,

Woven into braid with practiced ease.

Eyes once more raised to cathedral sky,

The scent of green fills nostrils — grass, lilac, fresh air.

Blue sprinkled as arms rise in twirled dance.

Among winter-capped peaks surrounding,

Cool air warmed by spring’s risen Sun,

A lovely lady clothed with linen trains the sky,

Dancing a melody only she can see,

In tune with a Voice only she can Name.

She trains in awe at nature’s raw beauty,

Luxuriates in the crisp of morning breeze,

Sees the Sculptor’s hand in clay of mountains near and far,

Pristine in precious solitary nearness to Heaven,

Learned and listening, as we watch her dance from dust.

Now draw near, I will whisper once only:

She is the Dreamer, we are the Dance,

And He is where we rest — the All in All.

When we worship, we are the Song.

He is the Rest.

And the Dance never ends