A thought is likened to a prayer…
Only with feet.
It’s as new prints in the snow…
Never… truly complete
Without a touching from nature
And its ever constant overflow
to the senses.
A snow with no prints
Is as the unsaid prayer…
And Unfulfilled dreams.
Mere oratory by the parabolic tare.
For the smallest of prayers is much more it seems…
It is the very fragrance of Heaven.
And then if we are to discover need
And not put feet to our thought of intercession.
It is as we cared not at all and betrayed a caring heart.
For even the greatest of speech without intervention…
Leaves us weary of failing to be a part
Of the true brotherhood of man.
gjroberts
