The Element
Rarely do we take the time
to walk a quiet, wooded glen;
or tarry to see the rising sun
reflect on glassy waters.
And few there are who understand
the solace of evening shadows;
or appreciates the chilling relief
of freshly fallen snow.
Not many sit in restful silence,
to hear the ocean's crashing roar;
or wander alone into the woods,
to know what silence lingers there.
And no one hears the waterfalls
or notes the rhythm that goes unbroken;
or realizes the searching depths
that lie beneath still waters.
Fewer still are those who see
the hand that holds all these;
or those who listen when He speaks,
or answer when He calls.
Linda L. (McDonald) Yoest
American Poetry Anthology (1987) Vol. VII, No. 1
Rarely do we take the time
to walk a quiet, wooded glen;
or tarry to see the rising sun
reflect on glassy waters.
And few there are who understand
the solace of evening shadows;
or appreciates the chilling relief
of freshly fallen snow.
Not many sit in restful silence,
to hear the ocean's crashing roar;
or wander alone into the woods,
to know what silence lingers there.
And no one hears the waterfalls
or notes the rhythm that goes unbroken;
or realizes the searching depths
that lie beneath still waters.
Fewer still are those who see
the hand that holds all these;
or those who listen when He speaks,
or answer when He calls.
Linda L. (McDonald) Yoest
American Poetry Anthology (1987) Vol. VII, No. 1
