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What Goes Up Must Come Down
Like boulders lifting peaks capped in an avalanche-waiting-to-happen, (frozen in the pose of afraid-to-move) I, too, stand under a freak-of-nature that's made my son the king-of-the-hill. He shakes the peace-in-the-valley with his rain(man)stick, makes it known that life-isn't-perfect and all-is-well only in heaven where the lion-and-the-lamb sleep with Goliath, who once made certain there was no-rest-for-the-weary, discovered, though, the meek-shall-inherit-the-earth. The peak-of-my-experience loads his sling-shot with diamonds-in-the-rough, slays the blessing-in-disguise. He comes down from the hill as the little-boy-blue, plays Gabriel's song. The sheep graze in peace and the wolf goes home. ©1999 revised 2001 Peggy Putnam Owen |