The Aspiring Bard

Splush! Splush! Splush! Sloshing through the mud Ankle-deep. Brown splatters half-way up My faded jeans. Listening to the Incessant peep Of new-awakened frogs. Overhead, Blue sky foretells Early Spring. But I am not fooled. Though tree-frogs call And the little birds Begin to sing, It’s still February.

Yellow grasses, Reaching toward blue sky. Wild, distant cry Of a bold hawk. Clouds overhead, Blow in the spring wind. Grasses sway and bend, Dance in the breeze. A quiet peace Flows all around me, Setting my soul free Of all its care. A presence stirs, And my soul awakes; Its worry forsakes In the stillness. God in the sky, In the swaying grass. Nothing can surpass His perfect peace.