25 February 2014

'The Flowers'

The tread of sneakers in the dirt,
A heart that seeks relief from hurt,
A half-cocked cap, a sweaty shirt,
And in my hand the flowers.

The songs of crickets growing strong,
A far-off dog yaps loud and long,
An evening bird bursts into song—
And in my hand the flowers.

The soft caress of wafting breeze
That brings to life the waving trees,
And grass that ripples in brown seas—
And in my hand the flowers.

The dirt and leaves, the pasture grass
And blossoms send their scents en masse,
And bring sweet mem’ry of years past—
And in my hand the flowers.

A lofty point, away from all,
Below me homes and steeples sprawl,
And I, compared to them, am tall—
And in my hand the flowers.

Behind me Night unfolds her veil,
Before me rays of sun still hail
The slumb'ring peaks, the sleeping vale—
And in my hand the flowers.

My own deep breathing blending right
With breezing grass and coming night;
My heart calms at the peaceful sight—
And in my hand the flowers.

Below me sundry footpaths bend,
Soft voices my torn heart amend—
Who ever stops to hear the wind?—
And in my hand the flowers.

For just a minute there I stay,
Drained and alone, and silent, pray
For strength to climb the toilsome way—
And in my hand the flowers.

Around me, silent, stand the peaks,
Benevolent guards in twilight bleak,
Somewhere within a soft voice speaks—
And in my hand the flowers.

I’m not unnoticed where I stand.
I have been dealt this by a Hand
That calculates each grain of sand—
And in my hand the flowers.

He forms and purposes all things,
These mountain peaks, each bird that sings,
The uphill climb, the muscles’ sting—
And, in my hand, these flowers.

These flowers…

They can't control where fell their seed,
Or if they're watered as they need,
Or choose what day their lives they cede—
So delicate, these flowers.

But, trusting their Creator knows,
Through all they do their best to grow.

Consider them.

Can I, who hold these petals, doubt
He has not, too, ordered my route,
The times of plenty, and the drought—
Like, in my hand, these flowers’?

I feel the voice, the peace of night,
In petals and peaks a reverent might,
Bow my heart, too, to seek the Light—
That formed me and these flowers.


My footsteps, willing now, head back,
O’er gravel, grass, and clay tight-packed,
And lightning bugs and animal tracks—
Still, in my hand, the flowers.

The pavement stretches out of sight,
Car engines shatter settling night,
My steps are quick, my heart more light… 

For, in my hand, these flowers. 

—Cassidy Wadsworth


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