My Voice

I cannot find my voice. I only hear it echo, here and there; In Groucho Marx's laughter at conventional-stuffiness and Frederick Buechner's words of true understanding, in Paul Gruchow's beautiful relationship with nature and Martin Luther's love of grace, in desert canyon croonings and mountain top vistas, in trees and rivers swaying and flowing and across endless points of the stretching plains, in reckless love and unconditional compassion, in all the money I've simply gave away and in possessions I'm no longer possessed by, in the wild wind and roaring rain amongst the amazing clarity of pure, fresh air, in the severe emptiness of dark and the sheer overflowing beauty of sweet sunlight, in the few irrefutable men, who are my real brothers and especially from deep within their open hearts they share. In all of this this soul, this spirit-of-being, I hear, my voice. And yet... when I turn to look at it directly, earnestly, though its scent lingers deliciously, it's gone, flown away, like the warmth of the sun on a deep winters day. And still, my voice, however intangible, continues to flow as echoes of sentiment coursing through the relentless runnels of my mind.