The birds sing in a discord of styles: some sound like they are in an opera, others in a lounge, others in a glee club; still, they sing in harmony. The sun scales the smooth bluff of a blue sky. The trees bustle about in preparation for the day.
This is my Father’s world.
I forgot…In the city, the boomrattle of car stereos, the screamed conversations, the yodeling of police sirens…I forgot.
God’s house is everywhere; each of His servants is called to a different part of it. But we must remember we were born in the garden.
No one can end a story like you. Always profound, always resonating in my mind even after I've left the page. I wish I could go back to that Garden.
ReplyDeleteLove the second verse framed within the "I forgots" - you take me back to my life on the North Side.
ReplyDeleteAh, so true. We must remember where we came from. And what better place to remember in than the woodsy north. I already miss it, and it's only been a day...
ReplyDelete(And, it has to be said: every time someone says/sings "this is my Father's world" I think of Larnelle Harris being pumped at full volume through the house by our earthly father.)
Thank you.
ReplyDeleteI forget too sometimes.
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