Upon a rock he reclined there
Steady blowing, growing colder was the air
Restful, wistful, reading in autumn rays
Water lapping, leaves falling, all a form of holy praise.

A Tolkien book, a small-town pastor
Under heaven’s canopy enjoyed his Master
With tales of fiction, pages worn
Captured mind as leaves were torn
From limbs on high and drew the sight
Of man from page to colorful flight
Till they lit on land and lake
Some to sink and some to bake.

Gusty hour of wondrous beauty
Replaced the normal day and duty
This man in awe retired till later
Trodding pine path, praising Creator.

On this day...

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