All Have a Time and Place

Born to blackest soil or yellowed clay,
By river's edge or sun lit glade,
On rocky rills or leeward cay,
Basked in sun or fallowed by shade,
We by nature's moods, thus formed and groomed
By that witless folly, picked and pruned,
Some to wither soon, as bloom does fade,
Others last, as Nature's living jade.

From the earth we are sprung like seeds,
Sprouted and nurtured by rain and sun,
to flower and bloom or grow as weeds,
To forest the land and mountain run,
And full the valley and lay our roots
And in our season, to spring our shoots,
While by our winter, fall like aged trees,
Becoming humus for other seeds.

We, at best , all have a time and place,
The Poet tries to explain by metaphor,
But in our subtle mind, by God's grace,
We know our metamorphosis can soar,
Not transient like wind, sand or far star
But as endless, eternal soul we are
Transcending, body and all worldly lore,
A part of God's plan,-should we ask more?

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