Vision

Me thinks sometimes,
Of grandeur in the skies.
Of radiant blossoms hanging,
To let perfume slowly rise.

Of soft winds sifting,
Far across the fields.
And in the distance over-lapped,
Crops grow lush...and yields.

T'is succor to the soul,
A healing power in rhyme.
That traces to the realms of life,
In the valiant strikes of time.

Where beauty does embrace,
And eyes look forth to see.
Far reaches set to colors,
Enhanced by every tree.

So easing unto life,
And full measure that is given.
Etched by the hand...of Him,
Who dwelleth high...in heaven.


E.P. 1908 - 1989