The Answer Breeze - A Poem

 

The wind flies across the plain,

 It dashes through the trees,

 It flutters passed the lazy creek,

 It plays with the bumble bees.

 

Then, in its ever present march,

 It zips on to the mountains,

 It echoes in the hollow caves,

 It splashes in the fountains.

 

And, still, still, still,

 It continues on its way,

 Until still it reaches,

 Where a child prays.

 

 

A quiet tear rolls down her cheek,

 She's as still as still can be,

 All but her lips, which move again,

 Eyes lifted so clouds they see.

 

She's kneeling in the grass and dirt,

 Waiting, waiting, waiting...

 Where is the answer to her prayer?

 It is waiting, waiting, waiting...

 

Waiting, waiting, waiting for what,

 While flying, floating, zipping, bending?

 Waiting for the child to see this:

 That it is here, her tears for mending.

 

You see, the child's prayer was simple,

 She wished for a soothing hand,

 So Jesus sent her, her very own,

 A breeze, a wind, around her to land.

 

He'd planned it days and days ago,

 And sent it a long, long ways,

 Over all sorts of countryside,

 And through many difficult maze.

 

And it got there just in time, oh yes,

 As her small prayer went up,

 "Jesus, just one small sign,"

 She prayed, with overflowing cup.

 

And that small, valiant breeze,

 Over and around her flew,

 It stroked her hair,

 Brushed her cheek,

 And tickled her toes, too!

 

But she didn't hardly even notice,

 Because praying too hard was she,

 She angrily told it to stop, and right now,

 His answer to never feel...or see.

 

© Miranda Marie 2016