Soaring Hope

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    Soaring Hope

    Soaring Hope  The winter of life rides to meet my soul.

    Father sun hides in the south,

    Making my bones ache and heart lonesome,

    Mother earth sleeps and I try to wait with hope.

     

    Is hope only like the snow that covers mother with her blanket while she sleeps?

    Awakened only to find its face hidden

    Could brother moon search while he passed in his walking?

    Finding hopes’ fulfillment hidden from my soul.

     

    The mate of my winter is missing. 

    My soul is in great sorrow. 

    Could this lifetime miss finding the fulfillment of my soul,

    Needed to help the passing back to my ancestors?

     

    I look for him, the mate of my soul.

    But covers hide him from me.

    Only he can touch the hand that will know him.

    He will know the respect of the gentle spirit within.

    That the spirits walk with my soul and keep me well,

    They will walk with him for his hand holds my soul.

     

    He will understand the simple spirit,

    He will respect the quiet when the water talks to me.

    He will know the spirit connection to mother earth and all she holds dear.

    All the oneness with the wind and father sun.

     

    Smiles

    This mate - who is hidden, must be wondering too.

    Did hope get lost, that brother moon does not see.

    His light to faint to find the soul who looks for me.

     

    I will miss you my soul mate when I leave.

    For all the times my dreams soared to seek

    So much was to be known, one human soul

    A spirit to grow.

     

    Alas, I wait, in looking for my soul mate.

    Hope still hidden in the winter of my life

    Knowing that mother earth

    Will one day send me home.

     

    To see the great creator in his spirit home,

    To greet my ancestors and sing and praise,

    For then I must wait again, for my soul mate,

    To be found among the clans who celebrate,

    The return of another sweet soul.

     

     By

     Brenda Chrismond

    Jan. 26, 2004

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    Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you or else it is nothing, an empty formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.

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