The Park

As I walk early in the park

Rosy fingers tint the dark.

A few rounds later with more light

I see below me the glorious sight

Of the city with its towers and domes

Concealing offices and homes.

And by my side someone stands

With steadfast gaze and folded hands

And I say to myself, “Isn’t it odd

He sees this orange orb as God.”

And when I ponder, I say of course

It is indeed life’s ultimate source.

And yet when it’s seen from afar

It’s just an inconspicuous star

In an unexceptional galaxy

Amongst the myriad one can see.

And then some how I rationalize,

Perhaps what makes this habit wise,

Is the harmless, healthful morning rays

The man absorbs all his days.

Is that perhaps his true reward?

Or is it a glimpse of the Lord?