For as many miles as I can go
weary worn and full of woe.
So the moon chases the sun,
grass grows, withers, and
it is buried
in white uncaring snow.
As a flickering flame and a sand grain.
Yet, a slowly turning planet, a solid mountain,
the ship of youth and the cradle of life,
the stalk of death,
and behold a light as seen
through a fog;
a hand from above the ledge.
Hope fluttering uncertainly,
so alluring and frightening.
Shaking, stretching to touch.
Hope beats back despair.
Salvation's warmth and the lost's palm,
they meet.