I come to meet You, God,
And as I linger here
I seem to feel You very near;
A rustling leaf, a rolling slope
Speak to my heart of endless hope.

The sun just rising in the sky,
The waking birdlings as they fly,
The grass all wet with morning dew
Are telling me I just met You.

And, gently, thus the day is born
As night gives way to breaking morn;
And once again I've met you, God,
And worshipped on Your holy sod.

For who could see the dawn break through
Without a glimpse of heaven and You?
For who but God could make the day
And softly put the night away?

-- Kartik Prajapati

Hardy, sturdy, picturesque,
The revered, old Cypress tree
Had stood for many years,
On its knoll beside the sea.

A focal point for cameras,
A subject for a brush,
A theme for poet's words,
A stirring stimulus.

A lone sentry in position,
With pride in all its limbs,
Tenacious and strong, the tree hung on
Through pounding rains and winds.

The old Cypress was a symbol
To folks along the coast,
Of stability and constancy,
Both good reasons to boast.

The birds flying around were happy
To know how secure their nests,
Each Spring they returned and rebuilt,
They loved that old Cypress the best.

Beneath its network of tangled roots
Burrowed squirrels and creeping things,
Protected, contented, and snug-as-bugs,
Untouched and living like kings.

No tree had been so admired,
Or been as respected as this,
Each generation laid claim to the tree,
And with pride declared ownership.

Nothing disturbed the old landmark,
No matter how hard nature tried,
Hurricanes, cyclones, or twisters,
The tree met each one and survived.

One day at the site of the treasured tree,
Appeared construction equipment,
A bulldozer, saws, and a crew of men,
And a sign that read, "NEW DEVELOPMENT."

Within the hour, the tree was gone!
This creation perfected through time,
That nature's fury could only enhance,
Or possibly make more divine.

The unsworn enemy of nature,
The silent foe of mankind,
Is poor, foolish man himself,
An aberration from God's design.

The photo, the painting,
The poetry ... gone!
The music, the history,
All now had moved on.

When the old Cypress left,
That's not all that died,
A part of man's heart,
And God Himself cried.

-- Kartik Prajapati