For the beauty of the earth. The words plink about like a church piano. But the symphony
joins in as eyes see surroundings. Moss on everything. Light, in the crevices
and splattered over water. Salt water. Nose wrinkles as tongue tastes wet
fingers. Salty alright. And fishermen go to work as the remaining gather,
to rest to a seaside sunset. Sea lions safely away yet curious. Great pines
stoic per normal.
For the beauty of each hour. It is dramatic, though true to scene, how breaths
catch each time the sun melts a little lower. A beach of waiting, until the
glow sinks all the way through the Olympics, right into the Puget Sound. Hard
to go home after finales. The many over-shoulder glances testify to hearts
wanting to want. And don’t we? There are only a smattering of still moments to
sit in like these. We miss them more than we live them. Oh, to even know of all
we fly by, that we might begin to change, to pace rightly the race.
For the joy of ear and eye. The words remind to take in the grandeur with full treasure
stores of acknowledging—true, well-deep thoughts that taper into gratitude. Then
single file. The remaining climb up and out of sandy pebbles. Back to firesides
we won’t light because, and this is glorious, the warmth didn’t melt away. So
we will sing truly all the way home.
For Thyself,
best Gift Divine.
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