Is It The Water?

Is it the water, he asked,
this youngest son of mine
as he watched me
mindlessly wording wow,
oh wow, oh wow. . . .

or is it the trees, he continued,
as I looked through the veil
that had separated me from
a lifetime of what I knew.

The oaks whose girth
surrounded vast space
could have stood centuries
of wind battering their bark.
Their streamers of moss flowed
from branches large enough
to be trees standing alone.

It was surreal.
I was standing at the brink
of a precipice walking
from eternity to eternity.

How did I part the veil
or was it pulled aside for me?
This altar of Nature whose sacraments
were a body of whipped waves
careening the shores
of this piece of land like
drunken sailors;

the wind pulling at the moss
of these Spanish Oaks
standing in prayer at the whim
of the Great God;
I was their altar boy
and I would have knelt forever
with the bells calling to worship
the recalcitrant intent on their toys.

This is where the journey takes you,
I say, to this place where the traveler
meets himself and finds his God
has come the way as his companion. . . . .
and the surprise is one of awe. . . .
oh wow, oh wow, oh wow. . . .

and it is for real.  For real.

February 10, 2016

photo by John Hallissey