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In centers of cities, there’s often a park;
And there grow the flowers, and there flies the lark.
Oasis it is in the midst of the bare,
The succor of people o’erladen with care.
And often they flee from the concrete and steel
To mountains or valleys, with skis or a reel,
Pursuing relief from the meaningless grind,
In search of a something that gives peace of mind.
The cells they call home, made by man and machine,
They garland with flowers and garnish with green.
Internally driven, unknowing, they quest
For road to return to their root and its rest.
To nature, away from the things made by man,
Is going to God anyway that we can.
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Photo by Hanspeter Klasser at
https://www.rgbstock.com/photo/ol0Xfew/Park+scene
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© Dennis Allen Lange, 2020.
The Bard on the Hill 