Without Whose Touch

Shrouded, slightly, in the mist,
The sun prevails, and e’en, insists,
On making good its holy show,
Which long ago the gods did know.

Ever mindful of its place,
It so predominates, with grace;
Illuminating, all it sees,
In patch-like wonder, ‘mong the trees.

Only clouds can hide its face,
But, temporarily; oft, in haste,
With, perhaps, a shower or two between,
Before its countenance is seen.

On every cape or bill, it shines,
As nook and cranny, it defines,
And each will take its turn to glow,
So quickly, putting on its show.

Glistening rocks will get their due,
As soon as sol has them in view,
And seas, becalmed, by its embrace,
Reflect the splendor of its face.

As it ascends toward the noon,
Its warmth is felt, a hearty boon,
Of Mother Nature’s bounteous store,
Without whose touch, would be, no more.

  Submitted By: Robert LeMessurier