He sends the birds
To wake me each day.
Somewhere from a tree
Or a fence across the street
Though they sing so sweet
I know not what they say.
He sends the rain
To readjust the earths fluids.
And without a word
I automatically become leveled
As my senses get involved
And my body adjusts to it.
There are thunderstorms
To change the stubborness of my will.
Nature and I are humbled
By thoughts of remorse
For unto the Master
Our spirits do yeild.
Cecelia Weir
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-yeilding/
