As Sure as the Anchor

As wind would whistle through the needles of the pine

To envelop the last remaining fall flowers,

Our own wind we create in front and behind,

To last a moment or to ruminate for hours.

We are sails in a current; we steer and we wind

This way and that, caught in sun-rays or in showers;

To one principality or to other powers,

To this we are a subject, in body and in mind.

With one will and sound decision left to trod,

We choose the wind we follow to the end,

And crosswinds will leave our souls bowing and awed

To one thing and the next; will this upend

The trust we put in riddles and in trend,

Or as sure as the anchor let down upon the face of God?