Dale Lloyd

Searching through the mist of time,
a veiled face I see—my own,
securely wrapped in silent history.

How is it I have come to stand in this special place?
I had no plan, no map in hand
to guide me through the race.

My wind-swept steps, faint traces brushed upon the sand,
silently they witness—there must have been a plan.

Ordered steps, but not by me,
a hint of reigning Sovereignty.
Step one, step two, step three, step four—
and suddenly, an open door.

Where to from here? I need not know.
In this, I find my rest:
the ordered steps of Sovereignty
will lead me to what’s best.