Wednesday, May 25, 2016

Slowly . . .






Yachats





when you walk down the path
in a sea of mountain flowers
up high where the air
is thin to breath . ..
watch out for the turn
near the base of the hill
where the sand turns to rubble
and the stars
no longer shine

Some days . . . when I have lost my strength to the trials of my job and life and I am depressed and weary . . . I look at the mountains and remember that I own them . . . every one of them . .. and the roads before me . . . and the roads behind . . . I own the sky and all its residents . . . and the sea in all it's glory . . . the wind, the fire bow before me . . . I own everything; yet I am not in control of all that I see . . for I barely have control of myself . . . maybe someday I'll be a god . . . but not yet.

hmmmm . . .