All Are Not Lost Who Wander
by R.E. Slater
I sometimes pretend my brother and I
are sitting on a hillside in a field of grasses
together like, as brothers do, after
playing hard and running till exhausted
then sitting down for a moment or two
gazing about, wondering, listening
feeling the cooling breeze upon our faces
as we watch the grasses sway just a bit
here, then there, then back again
before lying down to rest our bodies.
I do the same now and then in my memories
mostly lived, but not quite completely,
watching out a window, or on a short walk,
hearing the woods breath, the birds sing as they do
or water tumbling over the brooks in quiet chatter
mindful of life's many adventures at home
or abroad, its moments with family and friends,
the strangers I've met who have come and gone
like the fair breezes as they too settle down
to rest in their evening prayers.
mostly lived, but not quite completely,
watching out a window, or on a short walk,
hearing the woods breath, the birds sing as they do
or water tumbling over the brooks in quiet chatter
mindful of life's many adventures at home
or abroad, its moments with family and friends,
the strangers I've met who have come and gone
like the fair breezes as they too settle down
to rest in their evening prayers.
I have wandered often enough unknowing
where I go, nor caring, unless upon some errand
or two, where in my mind's heart or across
my restless soul imagining all my days, searching
where I go, nor caring, unless upon some errand
or two, where in my mind's heart or across
my restless soul imagining all my days, searching
I know not what, but always searching, always
curious, favorably so for the most part, each day
wrapped mostly in beauty wherever I go,
whomever I meet, though some will doubt
distrusting life, who are unwashed, unconverted,
to the God I see wherever I roam, wherever I go.
whomever I meet, though some will doubt
distrusting life, who are unwashed, unconverted,
to the God I see wherever I roam, wherever I go.
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