A View From The First Ridge

A View From The First Ridge / Joshua Alan Sturgill

Crisp the words
when I was young
the rhythm cut
the beauty stung

But eyelids leaden
hands regress
with every line
the light is less

Body’s thoughts
and body’s cares
the inner man
no longer shares

with soul unweighted
rising strong
the work now turns
from page to song

— to Eden’s
wordless melody
the latter years
God sings in me