Beauty Unseen 1959
This morning I awoke before the dawning
As every morning
I listened to the blue jays scorning
in the tall trees.
The squirrel rustling in the red oak leaves
The rooster and his morning call
as he perched on the old horse stall.
― Then the sun rose over
The distant hills
casting its rays across the fields
of golden grain,
shining its beams of silver
made the darkened stream a jeweled river.
And again
a new day was born
a wonderful sunny morn!
I got out of bed.
No longer would I rest my head
for why let a beautiful sunrise dawn
And me be with closed eyes.
I found my trusty cane
And set out on a walk
down the old path again
to hear bright beauty talk.
The wind blew about me
as I walked along
And as it whistled I thought
it sounded like a song.
It was good to feel the wind;
It’s touch is like a silent friend.
The dirt beneath my heavy feet
like drums beat to my every step
a silent tune.
I marched on
along the winding path, a song
in my heart.
The music was majestic trees
swaying in the morning breeze.
Atop them were the little birds
chirping, chirping unknown words
to each other.
A pattering of tiny feet
as a rabbit goes bounding off
into the field of golden wheat.
And now I come to the river
its waters as clear as shining silver
rolling along the muddy path.
And there I sat
as two ducks were taking their noonday bath.
The fish swam and flipped.
Into the water, the thirsty bird dipped
his dry orange bill.
The cows were grazing on a distant hill
on fresh green clover.
Here I sat for endless hours
and now the day is almost over because the sun of blazing fire
is sinking into golden fields
beyond the grass covered hill –
not to appear again till dawning,
and now I find myself yawning!
It has been a wonderful day!
I now start back the darkening way.
The birds are going into the trees.
The red and brown are now black leaves.
The old rooster all day running loose
is now going into the shed to roost.
Yes, the day is done,
but another will come
with beauty, too
and I shall walk again
through the beautiful woods
and tread the hills of clover
a million times over
and observe that within
and beauty shall I find
but shall not see ―
for I – am blind.
from Did Someone Say Tomorrow by Mark Howard Bowles © Mark Howard Bowles