LONELY

Joy is lonely
when there are few
to share the way.

Where are those to catch
the golden beam, hard won?
Where the sorrowful soul
with reinvested dream?

The Trumpet sounds
but O so few
to hear this day.

It isn’t from
the lack of ear:
the mind and heart
they cannot hear
for they are lean.

All Glorious shake the mountain tops;
the World draws back, ears cupped by hands
to quell such grand disturbance.

The Trumpet raised in rarified air
descends the golden height:

from rocky slope
o’er forested hill
to landscape of crops
at night.

“Peace” is restored.
The lowered hands
are busy in the World
of men:

restored from confusion
by glorious intrusion;

busy. Busy.
Busy once again.

          Envoi
                     The glory fades.
                     New trust can grow.
                     In new decades
                     new ears can hear;
                     new eyes can catch
                     the fiery glow.