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by Randy Rich

A mockingbird sings at 2:00 AM,
waking me from a dead sleep,
like a dream, the still
darkness settles into the hardwood
floors, the fan moving the air,
my beloved wife, asleep in the shadows
of the moonlight as it filters through
the sounds of creation.

Stars shine like birds
moving through the oak trees, through
the soul of the seeing, light
filtering through the dead branches,
earth spinning into view.

I believe in something beyond
this tiny frame, insignificant
corpse of the future, becoming ashes,
into nothing, forgotten.
It sings, even in the night,
through the breeze that carries the sounds
of power, of beauty in the broken stillness.

© by Randy Rich

This writing may be used in its entirety, with credits in tact,
for non-profit ministering purposes.

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