Out of Reach

Sometimes we survey the skyline

Though beckoning eyes beseech

To its far-off mist-kissed mooring

It is always out of reach

Sometimes we warm to the whisper

Of a lone wind’s wand’ring whim

But for all our winsome wishing

We will never corner him

Sometimes time is quite the trickster

We can’t really see him pass

Until the face in the mirror

Startles our looking-glass

Sometimes we forget to listen

Until heart-minstrels perform

Like the rolling of an ocean

A tempestuous echo-storm

Sometimes we wait what seems like eons

As we hope and pray and plead

While the Hand that can move mountains

Fortifies faith’s mustard seed

© Janet Martin