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| A Friends Visit His home was a mansion, it was so grand and all. It overlooked the forest, trees so great and tall. Through the woods the deer ran, and over hill and dale. It was nearly time the lights were out, the sun was growing pale. He built a fire to break the chill, the cool dark night would bring. And listen to the frogs and others, like crickets that would sing. They played melodious songs a while, soon only whispers drifted on the bay. Then the rustle of a featherd wing, an owl had caught its prey. You could see the light dance in his eyes, from the fire all ablaze. Until he drifted off to sleep, to greet another day. The fires flames were waning, coals were red, now a blueish cast. Sparkles, and popping embers, gave their lives at last. This story is not about the night, but about the things within it. The same things in the daylight, every hour and every minute. Of creatures hiding from the sun, of others from the dark. Of all the ones that God had made, starting with a spark. The sleeping man awakened, looked at a star so bright. And thought about his father, before he said goodnight. Like his father and his father to, passing on their name. Stories of their childhood, many listened many came. They told of times when man was young, and learning many things. Passed through generations, a few forgotten, but some were famed. How will your children know your words, if you do not tell them. For no one else wrote your book, or knows your favorite hymn. Now his dreams were over, he woke to see the light. Just over the horizon, peeking through the night. He streatched and yawned and washed his face, a smile upon his face. For he remembered seeing, his fathers from their place. He had gazed down on his house, his soul watched as he slept. His ancestors stood beside him, their promises they kept. He saw the dust grow from far away, his friend had come to greet him. He smiled and waved as he always did, as he watched the beat up truck pull in. The tall dark man in cowboy hat, white shirt and denim jeans. Extended hands clasped one another, a warm welcome by all means. Then the kindly gentleman, asked him how he'd been. I'm fine thank you, and how are you my friend. The cordualities now at an end, a serious look the cowboy gave. Why don't you build a house? he asked. a queried look upon his face. The man held up his hands, and raised them to the sky. I'm in my house, just look around, how can you wonder why? The cowboy stood and pondered, rubbed his fingers on his chin. He took a feather from his hair, and gave it to his friend. Sleep with this my brother, as he squeezed it to his hand. Maybe the spirit we call God, will let you live on his land. You may not know I have a home, a wife and family. But sometimes I live here, with the past, and know I'm free. The Masked Writer <-.-> <o.-> � 2001 T Lovett |
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