• When the sun rose,


    The Old Man sews,


    And mouintains rise,


    As He knots the ties,


    Each part He threads,


    The fire spreads,


    To light the coal,


    Breathing life to the soul.


    Upon the cloth, images moved,


    Across the land, the desert smoothed.


    When the pictures spoke, a powerful sound,


    Great trees broke free of the hardened ground.


    Woven pictures like threaded gold,


    In the Old Man's image, the pictures He Molds.


    On and On the Old Man weaves,


    In our Creator we should believe.





    Logan McGlothlin


    (I had this Poem and others published at www.poetry.com)