VOICES OF ANGELS
Pine needles and moss cushion each step
as I approach the river’s edge.
The wind sighs through the trees
and whispers a greeting,
like an old friend,
welcoming me back for a visit.
It invites me to come, sit and relax,
and shed my worries into the water
and let them float away
as if plucked from my mind
by the very hand of God.
It is here, in this cathedral
of pines, hemlocks and cedars
that I come to meditate
and reflect.
It is here that the birds sing
with the voices of angels.
I sit on a large, flat rock beside the river,
watching the current flow and
swirl away before me.
The water, as it splashes over the rocks,
sounds like laughter to me,
and I smile to myself.
My parents used to come here in their youth,
to this very same spot,
before they were married,
before they had children,
before life got so big and complicated,
and these simple pleasures were forgotten.
I often look at the pictures
they took of each other back in 1958.
Their faces radiate such joy,
because it didn’t matter
where they were, as long as
they were together,
and I wonder if, years later,
in the midst of a busy day
filled with responsibilities,
they ever paused in their duties
and let their minds drift back
to those simple, carefree days.
I wonder if, perhaps, they sat
on this very same rock
and watched the river flow by
and planned their future together,
smiling at the sound of laughter
and the voices of angels.
