By Andrew R. Duckworth
Rock smoothed away
By the dancing wind,
Chiseled by time
Chipping at the edges
And God’s tools of nature
Made a doorway,
Made a window.
Look at the doorframes,
Some round, some square,
Ornate carvings crafted there.
I can’t read them-
Nature’s tongue is often
So mysterious,
But it’s a sweet sound,
That language of wisps and echoes.
Are they instructions
For how to enter?
My pride and my appreciation
Tells me to run,
But my mind and my soul
Shouts to my feet
To be as soft and gentle
As the whispering wind.
Poetry and Essays of Andrew Ryan Duckworth 