You stop to rest your pen and your mind flickers in the early light.
Your desk is your lap and your garden is the wind sweeping through the grass.
Your pen are the thoughts and dreams placed in your head,
A place where there is no need for recollection, all you feel you know.
You watch the morning deer bound over the hills, her certain hoof-prints, marking your life in a moment.
Your hands are the trees that hold up the birds and your feet are the pilgrim's along the dusty way.
You don't need the sun's warmth to make you content, your smile is already your zeal and all the devotion You shall ever need.
You hear the sound of a soft ticking and know it to be the beat of your heart.
Your voice is the birdsong, chorusing to awaken your soul.
The moon is your lamp and guides you to trample upon the shadows of night.
Your life is a gift and your kindred spirit immortal, you are blessed by the one whose mighty hands creates All of this and you.
But the song, the song that you keep treasured within you is yet to be heard to any passer by.
Maybe it is the wind through the reeds along the river bank?
Or the owl hooting goodnight?
Or perhaps it is the rain upon the window, its gentle silver beads from heaven?
But only if you are patient and gentle and have a listening heart, you may just come to hear it, hear it and know.