I look above, what do I see?
A little face, looking at me,
with knobby eyes and bushy brows,
a pointy nose and mouth that scowls.
I wonder what the face perceives
when looking down beneath the leaves.
Its mien implies that I intrude
upon its quiet solitude.
Yet we’re alike,
the face and I,
for I too prize my quiet time,
a time to pray and meditate,
a time to listen and to wait,
to hear God’s voice speak to me
restoring faith and sanity.
So to the face with scowling eyes,
I truly do apologize:
thanks for sharing this place with me,
little face up on the tree.
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