In the hush of meadows where the old ones dream,
a granite sage emerges from the earth's own seam.
His beard a cascade of lichen-woven years,
eyes carved from thunder, holding ancient tears.
He cradles a tome, pages yellowed like forgotten suns,
where runes whisper secrets of battles lost and won.
The wind combs through his crown of stone-hewn rays,
as sunlight gilds the furrows of his timeless gaze.
Beneath bare branches, he ponders the scroll of fate,
"HOLY SCRIPTURE" etched in moss, a solemn gate
to truths that root in soil and soar in sky,
where seasons turn and mortal echoes die.
Now shift the scene to verdant thrones of green,
where a crowned titan sits, his realm serene.
Moss cloaks his shoulders like a verdant robe,
his diadem a flourish of forgotten lobe.
The book lies open on his lap of rock,
illuminated by dawn's first golden shock.
Fingers of stone trace lines of lore profound,
as petals bow in reverence all around.
Sunbeams pierce the canopy, a halo's grace,
awakening the wisdom etched upon his face.
He is the guardian of tales that never fade,
in gardens where the light and shadow played.
Another angle, where the forest breathes deep,
a curly-bearded elder guards the words he keeps.
His gaze a spiral, drawing souls within,
the open volume a mirror to begin
reflections on the paths that twist through time,
inscribed in ink that defies the climb.
Wildflowers lean as if to hear the verse,
while light filters soft, a blessing or a curse.
He smiles in stone, eternal and profound,
a keeper of the knowledge safe and sound.
Across the hills where golden fields unfold,
a helmeted watcher, stern and bold,
sits with his scripture spread upon his knee,
surveying vistas vast as memory.
Tulips rise in crimson, purple, and rose,
framing the sage where quiet wisdom grows.
The sky a canvas of unyielding blue,
mirrors the depth in eyes that ever knew
the weight of ages, the turn of every page,
a sentinel against the coming rage
of forgotten lore in worlds that haste away.
In shadowed groves where symbols intertwine,
a hooded seer with crosses divine,
holds forth his book beneath a canopy tall.
Runes encircle his brow like a sacred call,
anchors and wheels, the marks of faith and wheel
of fortune's turn, the fates that conceal
and reveal in equal, measured breath.
His eyes half-closed in contemplative death
of fleeting moments, alive in stone's embrace,
teaching the silence of the sacred space.
And lastly, in a park where whimsy reigns,
a wide-eyed giant with a grin that chains
the heart to laughter midst the blooms so bright.
Hieroglyphs flank his cheeks in morning light,
a playful scribe with tome of endless jest,
where daisies dance and worries find their rest.
His gaze alive with mischief carved in clay,
inviting wanderers to pause and stay,
to read between the lines of joy and mirth,
the lightest lesson from the heaviest earth.
These statues, brethren of the boulder and the book,
stand varied in their vigils, yet all overlook
the human haste, the rush to claim the new.
They teach in stillness what the ages brew:
that wisdom roots in patience, carved and deep,
a poetry of presence, where the quiet keep
the flames of knowing, through storm and through calm,
eternal readers chanting nature's psalm.
a granite sage emerges from the earth's own seam.
His beard a cascade of lichen-woven years,
eyes carved from thunder, holding ancient tears.
He cradles a tome, pages yellowed like forgotten suns,
where runes whisper secrets of battles lost and won.
The wind combs through his crown of stone-hewn rays,
as sunlight gilds the furrows of his timeless gaze.
Beneath bare branches, he ponders the scroll of fate,
"HOLY SCRIPTURE" etched in moss, a solemn gate
to truths that root in soil and soar in sky,
where seasons turn and mortal echoes die.
Now shift the scene to verdant thrones of green,
where a crowned titan sits, his realm serene.
Moss cloaks his shoulders like a verdant robe,
his diadem a flourish of forgotten lobe.
The book lies open on his lap of rock,
illuminated by dawn's first golden shock.
Fingers of stone trace lines of lore profound,
as petals bow in reverence all around.
Sunbeams pierce the canopy, a halo's grace,
awakening the wisdom etched upon his face.
He is the guardian of tales that never fade,
in gardens where the light and shadow played.
Another angle, where the forest breathes deep,
a curly-bearded elder guards the words he keeps.
His gaze a spiral, drawing souls within,
the open volume a mirror to begin
reflections on the paths that twist through time,
inscribed in ink that defies the climb.
Wildflowers lean as if to hear the verse,
while light filters soft, a blessing or a curse.
He smiles in stone, eternal and profound,
a keeper of the knowledge safe and sound.
Across the hills where golden fields unfold,
a helmeted watcher, stern and bold,
sits with his scripture spread upon his knee,
surveying vistas vast as memory.
Tulips rise in crimson, purple, and rose,
framing the sage where quiet wisdom grows.
The sky a canvas of unyielding blue,
mirrors the depth in eyes that ever knew
the weight of ages, the turn of every page,
a sentinel against the coming rage
of forgotten lore in worlds that haste away.
In shadowed groves where symbols intertwine,
a hooded seer with crosses divine,
holds forth his book beneath a canopy tall.
Runes encircle his brow like a sacred call,
anchors and wheels, the marks of faith and wheel
of fortune's turn, the fates that conceal
and reveal in equal, measured breath.
His eyes half-closed in contemplative death
of fleeting moments, alive in stone's embrace,
teaching the silence of the sacred space.
And lastly, in a park where whimsy reigns,
a wide-eyed giant with a grin that chains
the heart to laughter midst the blooms so bright.
Hieroglyphs flank his cheeks in morning light,
a playful scribe with tome of endless jest,
where daisies dance and worries find their rest.
His gaze alive with mischief carved in clay,
inviting wanderers to pause and stay,
to read between the lines of joy and mirth,
the lightest lesson from the heaviest earth.
These statues, brethren of the boulder and the book,
stand varied in their vigils, yet all overlook
the human haste, the rush to claim the new.
They teach in stillness what the ages brew:
that wisdom roots in patience, carved and deep,
a poetry of presence, where the quiet keep
the flames of knowing, through storm and through calm,
eternal readers chanting nature's psalm.
The Sunday Circle