A medium view from the top of the hill
No distant volcanic peaks in sight
Yet full enough
Endowed with mystery beneath the leafy streets
Overhead, a windlord soars the thermal updraft
While closer yet the swallows dart with fluid grace
The traffic thrums, although unseen
My thoughts settle from the chaos of the day
Coming softly to a gentle rest
And I whisper, as soft as the breeze
The promise of your name
And I’m answered with contentment and soon enough
Relief
Anticipation
Trepidation, and
A sense of Christmas morning creep
Is it time?
David Trudel © 2012
