My Humble Pew

I miss the wild,
nature's every stitch of every thread,
long that brought,
though not of late,
my youthful soul to bent and humbled knee.

The early summer forest
thick with green and flowing,
welled with flowers, lilacs grown and glinting
white with violet,
far beneath it's ceiling
high and pied, of leaf and pine.
Its slightest stream,
an almost silent crawl
that weaves and winds its way
amidst the timbered crowd.
Each its songbird's precious verse,
those familiar, others strange,
all a welcome war to wage
against the retched roar
we ceaseless rage.

Autumn's melancholy,
peerless death in breadth and beauty,
joyous Spring
with all its splendor spent
on breathing birth to latent life,
and even sorrowed winter,
lifeless born and barren.

The dawn and dying dusk,
the chill of crystalled night
when distant stars from deep
reveal their clear, indifferent eyes,
awake, yet unaware of ours;
our minute view of things untouched,
untarnished yet and unattained,
our mighty minds despite.

For wild nature need not wait,
nor us to keep its course.
Ever, nature acts on will and whim,
bereft of time and care
of feet abound, or eyes aware.
The trees will ever take to root and sway,
and fall,
the sparrow's song within.
The most shallow stream
remembers where to flow,
as each the seasons need
no sign to die or grow.

Yet
I miss my humble pew,
my narrow view,
that even now is dwarfed
by just the smallest April oak.
I crave creation's deep design,
its fabric sewn with skillful hand
and artful eye.
Trapped between the bounds of days and time,
on city street or rural road
I wallow famished, faint,
awake and yearning;

Nature, beckon!
Break me, bring me down to bended knee,
amidst your beauty
set me free.