Sunrise With Fog

Sunrise With Fog
Every Morning is New

Thursday, September 27, 2012

An Old Swing

Some days the swing is quiet.... just hanging there so still,
Just some old rope and a worn board for a seat...
A simple thing it seems, but what joy it instills
A place for contemplation and thoughts so sweet.
Through out the seasons it stays there in that place,
Always welcoming me for a few moments of time...
Either swinging in lofty arcs or slowly in place,
It is a special feeling with the wind on my face.
In the springtime the birds sing
As they build a nest in that tree,
Soft green leaves become refreshing shade.
I see the geese heading north as I sit in the swing,
The sun warms me as I savor what God has made.
Days lengthen and summer draws near,
Trees blossom and fruit begins to appear,
Growth all around me speaks of God’s provisions.
Resting in the swing I watch all the joyful actions.
Parent birds feeding little ones patiently,
Little calves kicking up their heels in the sun,
A doe coming to the edge of the forest with her little one....
Coming out to graze just as the day is done.
As summer progresses there are long hot days,
But under that shade tree a soft breeze plays.
Sometimes I might be tempted to rest in that swing,
Looking out over the countryside, praising my King!
Days are getting shorter, it is time for harvest,
A late afternoon thundershower rinses off the dust.
As the storm passes I might go sit on that old board seat,
Watching the clearing clouds, hoping for a treat.
And there it is!  The late golden sunlight strikes rain across the way,
Breaking up the light in a beautiful display...
And suddenly a brilliant rainbow appears,
The beauty of God’s gift almost moves me to tears.
As the season changes to fall,
There is a hint of frost, the migrating geese call...
As I sit in that swing in obvious delight
Under the canopy of leaves that God has painted with light.
They seem to be glowing in bright red and gold,
The Creator is at work with colors so bold.
The days are shorter yet, the wind is blustery and cold,
The leaves fall to the ground, a sight to behold.
The swing hangs from the bare limbs of the tree,
Hanging there motionless, waiting for me.

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