From the first breath of an ancient dawn,
could be seen creation’s fresh new morning.
Where the labyrinth play as cedars pray,
until wisdom’s owl begins his evening post,
of the midnight swan gliding on still waters.
Hear the echoes cry through corridors of time,
giving way to things contrary to royal conception.
What might it be like if the labyrinth still played,
unmolested through living green and swallow's song,
as eagles wing their unfettered flight toward home?
Man and nature raise their heads in anticipation,
of the breath of a present dawn to be seen by all.
This Holy wind swells into a glorious new morning.
A beginning again, where hallowed halls ring of
victory chants, and galaxies join in triumphal song.
copyright 2/21/2016
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