I was sitting on the porch one afternoon several months back. Perhaps I had been practicing guitar. One of my favorite poems is "The Touch of the Master's Hand" by Myra Brooks Welch. The story goes that she returned home after hearing an inspiring speaker, sat at her typewriter, and composed the poem. She claimed the words just came to her as if from God. I thought that would be quite an experience. Back to my story, that is about what happened to me. The words just came with little thought on my part. I am not a poet in fact after I experienced a stroke the therapist challenged me to compose a song. I struggled for at least a week and finally had some words that rhymed but that was about all you could say for the composition. Anyway, I know my limitations when it comes to writing. I had to immediately leave the porch and write down the words before I forgot them. This is the result:

    The raven glides on midnight wing, their tips turned toward the sun.

    His raucous call reminds us all that day is now begun.

    The hummingbird with bill down-curved, draws nectar from the flower.

     He flits along the whole day long until the twilight hour.

    While we, unfeathered humans, have a different point of view.

    We seek superiority and claim to know what's true.

    But over and above us all, God sees our feeble quest.

    His gentle hand, His eternal plan, determines what is best.

No, it isn't Robert Frost material. Whatever the source, I was the tool that limited the work. The truth is that is far beyond my capability.