by Emily Gingrich

Where lake meets tree and tree meets sky,
Where ducks and seagulls wheel and cry—
The waves hum tunes to slumbering shores,
And lonesome breezes drift and sigh.

A loon-call lilts down silent deeps
As silver hanging mist still sleeps.
The quavering yodel rises, falls—
The cry of one with nameless griefs.

And as the echoes fade away,
Like rising hope comes light of day.
The hills and forests wake again;
The ripples frolic in the bay.

When day rolls on into the west,
Perhaps then all is at its best.
The sky sews sequins on its cloak
As nature sinks to silent rest.

This is a place no man has known,
No paddle sparkling spray has thrown.
Know, venturing wanderer, when you land,
That he who comes must come alone.

Bits of Emily Gingrich can be found in many places: stuffed in her kayak’s hatch, pacing at the front of her middle grade classroom, buried in the dirt along with zinnia seeds, sprinkled over the pages of her current manuscript, or wandering the Ontario hills that she calls home, but she wants all of herself to belong to the One who lets her live this wonderful life.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy

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