Fresh

The trees stand tall, not a breathe of wind to sway their branches.
The air is fresh, yet has not gained the warmth of air kissed by the sun.
The grass is silver with dew.
The colors of the sky are muted, and have not given birth to the full color world I am accustomed to.
The whisper of the breeze carries on its back great anticipation.
I find myself expecting a God, notorious for showing up, to do so once more.
My feet, now coursing through the cool sand of Lake Michigan.
The air of which I spoke, still lingers, and in analogy so fully mirrors the spiritual air within me.
How I long for fresh wind to fill my sails, to cary me beyond the shore.
To fill my sails, and set a course for the horizon.
That I may move with reckless abandon.
To examine my charts, and find that I have not wavered a single degree.
Did you feel it? A favorable wind is swelling at our back!
What does this day hold?
What is prepared?
Allow me to mend each sail, that I may forge on with reckless abandon.
Waken the dead in me!

Shalom