At The Gates. . .


At The Gates

They stood as Amazons,
great and glorious
in their largess,
in their girth. . .

With moss flowing
horizontally from their branches,
thick as trees themselves.
These Spanish Oaks
stood their stance,
worshiping at the shores
of the waters
whipped to a froth. . .

Their centuries told
of standing at the gates
waiting for me, they said.
They knew there would
be a one who recognized
who they were.

Apostles at the gate,
they waited for centuries
for me to come
and kneel at the altar
of what they guarded. . .

and the way to here
was as nothing, but
the here is what is gold.
Many paths, many ways,
times innumerable,
but the rainbows end
held the glory.

With nothing to pretend
the answer, the life lived
as if the hope is inevitable.
To find it was always so.

The unearthing is the joy.

Photo by John Hallissey

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