His Call

He calls and repeats his call,
it travels on the tepid breeze,
encircles the weary woodland,
rises up to crafty cumulus clouds,
trails passed each blade of grass
and falls into empty, murky marsh.

He waits and waits even longer,
his tune falls to silent, vacant realms
knowing her image trails in his mind,
lifts his head and rises high to listening,
he puffs his wings, encircles the land,
will travel far to find what he has lost.

As for the song bird,
he lovingly lingers long;
seeks what he has lost.

“And we know that all things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are the called according to His purpose.”

Romans 8:28
P. Wolf; poet & author

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