On the horizon is a dot.
It grows to a speck.
He lumbers on,
Slow and sure.
He climbs the hill.
Dotted with green hope,
It sparkles
With newborn dew.
Blades are dull
And reaching out to Mother Sun.
Spirits soar with the birds.
Soft winds carry on
Whispering sweet thought.
A mossy undergrowth
Softens all woe on him.
A scorching sunset
Overlooks and guards
Against intruding sin.
Still he climbs ahead
Blindly trusting as before.
He feels all he observes.
A passing river provides
A cool sensation
For his inner-eyes
With its flowing grace.
Stars provide a different texture
For his mind's brush.
They illuminate
A dark canvas: warm and light.
He can only imagine.
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