Some Borrowed Place...

Oh to have the view from some borrowed place
That is not our own.
To dream lazily under the sky as we lay in grasses
We've never touched, to breath in air not from here.
Maybe some city skyline whose streets our soles haven't graced,
Or it's park bench on which we haven't sat.
The aromas from some sun scraped vistas I don't yet know
Fill my wantings making me long for some borrowed place.
Pin-pricked back drops of starry skies watched on shores
Depressed by only our footprints.
Or maybe some mountain-scape with summits pressed high
Viewed from some borrowed window
From a room that is not our own.

I long all day for that borrowed place I've never seen,
But in pictures or from stories seen only in dreams.
That borrowed place we are yet to go,
Fills our hearts to be among the cascading climates
Of other places, to feel their warmth or their chill
Not caring either way as long as the view is one we both share.

Let's go together to that borrowed place.

Under the Oaks at Mamre

Under the Oaks at Mamre,
The Triune Visitor came to sit,
Life, Creator and King, they came
To cool themselves under shaded boughs.

"What occasion brings this call," I asked,
"Why cast your shadow, Lord, here?"

"To gift you," came the LORDS reply, "with a baby in old age."

A laugh is all was heard from inside my tent pitched at Mamre. "Laughable, right, to bear a child in old age?"

"Why now," I pondered as our candles' light has begun to dim, "Would such an idea be conceived?"

Under the Oaks at Mamre,
Sat Prophet, Priest and King.
With two fingers touching Tera's Table
In Life this One as two would spend,
Not divided in Divinity or Humanity, but Divine right for a time Suspend.

Under the Oaks at Mamre,
Sat Counselor, Creator and Comforter.
The Giver of Life, Oh Breath,
Descended to close the chasm of loss.
The Wind of one day's parted waters
To guide home my child's sons from bondage,
Would bring us back here, again, under these Oaks found at Mamre.

Under the Oaks at Mamre sat the LORD bringing news of a gift,
Of a son wrought in old age and a laugh is all we could give.

Now departing from Under the Oaks at Mamre,
This Visitor's time was spent.
Off to light some fire, "My Lord," I called, "come again."

Under the Oaks at Mamre,
The Divine Visitor came to sit.