The fickle moods of men and pen
Respond to eyes and fingertips
And who of us can quite depend
On sighs that cut across these lips
Which grin and pout and praise and doubt
Prone to the wayward whims of flesh
While season-tides rush in, ebb out
As future-present-past enmesh
And we become the way we are
By whom we choose to follow, oh,
Where Day that rolls from shore to shore
Is more than metered moment-flow
And we are more than skin and bone
Prone to its fickle mood and whim
These feet which graze each stepping-stone
From God, are leading back to Him
© Janet Martin
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I hope you enjoyed your pause on this porch and thank-you for your visit!