By FRITZ CRYTZER
The untuned psalms of solitude
serenade my secret place.
Thoughts, like storm blown clouds,
scatter in a heavenly race.
The sky is sometimes blue
and sometimes lonely laced,
and streams, like ambitions, roil,
going nowhere in desperate haste.
The moon and stars, bits of light
on somber moods, are signs of faith,
and the sun is a holy healer,
bringing God into my secret place.