Through silence I have seen it all. From the breeze pestering my arm hairs and mustache to the gravel twisting and crunching beneath the soles of my well-worn boot. Along for the ride with intentions by my side seeking guidance not pride with no need to hide. Leeward leaning for the properties and aspirations of great men whispering to me from the pages of what God wrote. In dawn I see the purple’s passion and crimson’s crush upon the heart of man. We are not made for fallow work to dust the muck from boots but to plant them deeply in the wealth of promise and harvest. I walk too slow for a man who should be worried about so much.

Elbow’s greased somehow delivers sloppy connotation. Hands ripe with callous and strengthened by grip on plow, have been salted for the Earth’s working. Twisting in the winds and whims of fate was never comforting. I wanted mystery and unknown dates of secret episodic miracles that delighted me with wonder. I wanted something beyond the edge of midnight, not monster or ritual but the dreams of man’s remaking. The shaping of something wrought for the Good Pleasures of the author. This is no chemical or mechanical course for engineering, no mathematical calculus of how the universe works and why I must bend it to my will for pleasure, or cruelty in power.

Being brief is when you’re not saying much worth recalling. To love you must know love then know the person you wish to give love. There is no love in simple taking or dispensing of gracious pliability. Lubricant to release the well-kept secrets and jewels of man’s conquest. Having been to this place of remorse and false hope found in moments of lurid recall I flee from the deception within me.

There is no ground upon which to make a sound house. There is no rain to douse the seeds beneath my booted feet. There is no honor in the taking, only in the giving of those things that lead to life everlasting. Removing tarnish in tumble as I mumble about the difficult associated with the road to perfection. In my recollection, not much perfect round here, so it must exist outside this time and place. Is that where I strive to go or ramble to and fro in the same plot of land passed over for the length of history’s remembering?

To what lengths has the seed landed for promise? What shall be grown on shallow dirt or upon the wind pounded slopes of tidy nightmares? This is not the ride of a man found daunting or dancing in the darkness to steps laid bare by barons and princes of the night. These are not the cuspids to cut the life short from investment. But the teeth to loosen tether and shatter hope of jailers with captured treasure set free by the wealth of God’s pleasure. What exists beyond my thinking? What upside down lands that violate gravity’s thumb await us in the light beyond tomorrow? What joy will I know in seeing the eyes of the one who found good reason and pleasure in my making? Will I be other than He made me?