In Part
Whose woods these are, I think I know,
He does not live in houses, though,
His is the realm above the skies,
A home which dwarfs the world in size.
I take a moment from my rounds,
To pause amidst these sheltered grounds,
And look up to the source of all,
To speak my thanks with yelping call.
His is a gaze so sharp and keen,
He’ll see right through these flakes so clean,
A thought from Him for those below,
Who watch His woods fill up with snow.
This is my blessing, I and mine,
To share in something quite divine,
I do my part in His great plan,
Another part belongs to Man.
NicknamedBob . . . . . December 25, 2004
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