Horizons

Gently it ripples, softly it is slipping

Green tide adorning earth’s fallow and slope

Out to the lips of cerulean grinning

A perimeter man cannot follow or grope

Where is the skyline that seals our visage?

Earth rushes out to brush azure-blue shores

Man rushes forward but we cannot touch it

Elusive allurement to ethereal doors

Wilderness, frontier, mountain or ocean

Grazes the furrow twixt seeing and faith

Gently it ripples; our thought and emotion

Tracing the edge of its blue, mystic wraith

Gossamer ribbon of infinite measure
We cannot race through its translucent seal
Nor stroll the breadth of its line at our leisure
And yet we know, the horizon is real

...it is, isn't it?

© Janet Martin

Horizons...the proof of faith.