Sweet Wildflower by Colin Moffett

I climbed the mountainside
Clambered over rock and stone
Felt the peace of solitude
On its peak silently alone

Then I saw it blooming there
Though its leaves were torn, tattered
The wildflower of the mountain
With strong winds cruelly battered

I could see it struggled hard to live
Of its plight I took some pity
Mountain wildflower why bloom here
Come to my garden in the city

There you will live in calmer clime
Your life will be more at ease
No strong wind will harm your there
Your face kissed then by gentle breeze

I seemed to hear its voice reply
On its face a raindrop tear
I cannot go to a city garden
For my home is on the mountain here

God has planted me where He would
Here my abode the mountain high
If you took me from its slopes
Then alas my heart would die

Here I am nearer Heaven’s home
He has blessed with such a view to see
Of all the places I could have been
This was the home He had for me

Battered yes and bruised my leaves
Yet the sun shines on my face
Remove me not for not His will
That I should ever leave this place

I descended from the mountainside
Over me again its peak did tower
Pondering over the lesson I had learned
Taught to me by the sweet wildflower



Colin Moffett

Strokes Of Love

When strokes of love are put upon a page,
It speaks the heart of the one portrayed.
With every brush stroke you tell a story,
Giving God Blessing, Honor and Glory.

Capturing the essence of His nature foretold,
In the harmonizing colors that start to unfold.
Movement of paint, gliding across the canvas time,
Creates a beautiful picture, heavenly designed.

Inspiration can come from most anywhere..
A child in a sandbox, or a town's old time square.
Drive in the country, a picnic at the lake..
Family gathering around for a picture to take.

Or a walk along the beach at night..
Full moon glistening off the water just right.
The soft breeze blowing through your hair..
Just God and you, in the night air.

On the palette of life, arranged and blended,
From Heaven, the pigment of color descended.
Paint strokes from God, dry brush or shading..
The beauty brought forth, always cascading.

When strokes of love are put upon a page,
It speaks the heart of the one portrayed.
The last and final painting to take place,
Is painted on the easel of God’s Grace.

Patricia A. Moore
12-8-2009