yes there's always a reason
even when the day comes down
and falls so heavy and sad,
even when the weight of your own life
is more than it's worth sometimes,
there is a designer and a design.
the rhythm is always there even when
the drummer is unseen, unreachable.
how else would the grasses in this field
grow so evenly, on green living carpet?
i wonder where he goes sometimes,
the author of the pages i tread,
the painter of my vivid life and
the weaver of my growing tapestry.
does he merely view my fragmented stories,
or is he the ink i am created of?
does he pace this green field occasionally
stopping to rewrite this tree and that?
i suppose when the story is ended and the
thick cover finally heavily creaks shut
he will add me to the others and
draw that same field in another life.
