Sometimes when I am left to ponder,
The roll of the clouds, the glow of the moon, the soar of an eagle, the height of the sky,
I, like a child, can’t help but wonder,
In all of this, what am I?
The roar of the storm, the ocean wide,
Spirals of rock, evergreens, ethereal flowers and mountain kings,
A bow of color in the sky, the ebb and flow of the passing tide,
What am I, amidst all of this creation that sings?
The yawn of a canyon, the crescendo of light,
Scampering does, skittering leaves, fluttering birds, towering trees,
The dance of stars in a dark blue night,
What am I, amidst all of these?
Perhaps it is not what I am that I should dwell on, nor on all of this majesty,
But rather, on the hands that made all of this, and me.