Thursday, September 8, 2011


My wandering heart kept beating,
I thought I heard the sound
Of places in that choir's note
Which waken and astound.
An isle in the distance,
A shimmering stone in mist,
And brush, and bales of flowers
Lined up on heaven's wrist.
An angel may have warned me
Of things I should not know,
But yearning, yielding, searching,
I breathe scents cherubs blow,
And in the bright tomorrow,
With pictures wet with paint,
I bend, and break, and borrow,
The dreams that heaven sent.

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