work of Your hands

I don't think I have a lot of people that actually read this blog, but that's okay. I enjoy it anyway. Poetry is different than story writing for me. The stories I write--they're about other people's experiences that have never happened. But the poetry I share here--they're stories from my own experiences. 

I wrote this poem yesterday afternoon, thinking about the senior class trip I went on Saturday and the chance I had to go paddle boarding and lay down on the board and relax.

Sometimes the sight of the stars

bring me to tears. 

I look at them, and the silver moon,

and think about how God 

painted the sky that bluish black

and hung the stars so delicately

so that they would form shapes. 

He hung them in the heavens,

and to us they're countless

but the Creator of the universe

numbered the stars and 

knows them all by name. 

I had to stop. And look. 

The river was calm,

the breeze was soft,

the sun was blazing,

all was quiet. 

I realized keeping up with everyone

didn't matter 

and I stopped and looked around,

marveling at what my eyes saw before me. 

Its all Your creation,

and for a short time I was alone

to look at the work of Your hands,

in a peaceful lazy river,

where the water was cool

and the sun was hot

and the blue heron flew above

and the birds were singing

in the forest of trees surrounding me. 

There was an adventure,

and all I wanted to do was lay back

and look around simply so 

I could be surrounded by Your creation. 

I felt peace, so far from my worries,

and I forgot about everything 

that I stress over. 

And if I could have,

I would have stayed a while longer,

floating along in a peace that came

from looking at what my eyes beheld

and seeing the work of my Father's hands 

all around me.