Russell G. Robison


Underneath the sky
Alone with thoughts of what I see
Listening to the wind sing songs
Of what will never be

Knowing that the whispers
Of the gently passing breeze
Often bring to mind those thoughts
That rarely often please

With a wicked tongue it speaks
Of what has gone before
And it asks the question
How much longer, how much more

As it moves on by
It leaves a thought of clarity
That we are nothing more
Than we have chosen now to be