The Tide of Night

 The pale moon is hoiseted high casting a white light of rememberance on forgotten woods. The dimly lit paths we used to tread came calling back to me as an echo or the remembrance of a dream within a dream. The vivacious spring time had held such promise of new life and hope of the coming summers dawn. Then I recall the moment fall found us and we fell through time as a leaf watches the love of the familar branch pass as it drifts farther to the ground. Yet, unlike the gentle leaf that lightly touches the soil, we hit the ground with a thunder and were buried beneath the thorns and thistles.

There we lay upon the cold ground struggling to regain a sense of footing, a sense of foundation.

From that ground the winds scattered all that we were or could be. Storms raged and refinement rained down upon me drowning out the dead seed of the man I had been, allowing the growth of the man I could be.

As I watch the tide of night wash over the memory of the mountains crest,

I turn my ear from the echo of those forgotten woods, and smile to God for making me the man i am.