To know is
to have shared,
to have been,
in green
meadows,
and this
to have lived.

A day
passes by,
the sun
follows
the moon,
incrementally,
the perspective cedes
almost imperceptively.
The spring showers
the leafs' needs
to flower,
slowly.

Tomorrow
gradually
moves patiently
to show 
the day it went
to a be that
was not.

Shaded eyes
look to the north
to see with a clear view.
The strong survive,
from death
to rise,
 and they see faith,
in the dawn rescue
covering the morning dew.

 A breathless gun
fires savannah blades
to cut medallions
from the cartridges
bronzing in the sun.

Spured boots clicking
on red marbled stone
far from home
they keep looking,
destined to roam,
where spirit prevails.

Faith never fails,
as yesterday has shown
on the dusk canvas trails
where they walked alone.