What Are We Missing?

Drops of rain Wear upon an old bit of forgotten copse Laying alone in a fallow field All the different shapes and shades Of stains and grains Write the color and flavor Of the soul in the wood. -Who this beauty shall ever see? To whom is it given, as intended, A beautiful gesture Of grace and love Redolent mystery, only In the quiet parts of nature... Oh, how much more Pure and simple beauty In our daily hurry and worry Do we miss And even care not to see? -By the making of humanities own hands, And blindly narcissistic plans We numbly linger in our loss Trapped deep in a self-idolatrous foss. The wonder of nature we can no longer see Transfixed in our own vain absurdity. No longer aching to get out-of-doors (that pure passion villianously absorbed by man's own created electronic whores) What a wretched price to pay By those who willingly decide Always inside to 'safely' stay. We all poets would be If only our spiritual eyes were opened For all of life's beauty to see. Those who refuse to try Sadly inside may die, For of them none shall ever invision What we, who dare to look, find Nor never feel What we, who dare to touch, intwine Can never know What we, who dare to think, 'get' And absolutely never understand What we, who dare to pause....... can in no way ever forget. Often, the sky weeps with rain The earth tumbles with pain Nature moans and groans as part of the cost For paradise lost, Longing for divine affection And human attention; Tis true: Love is what everything and everyone is after, From the simple slave all the way to the Master. For God's own sweetest kiss Is what we surely most miss, In this Our own blind, self abyss. '..... there is nothing, not even crime, more opposed to poetry, to philosophy, ay, to life itself, than this incessant business.' - Henry David Thoreau.