where does it go when it flies far away,
where has it gone off to scamper and play,
when it starts to get dark, at the end of the day,
how can you call it back home?
where does it go, down a glass mountain stream,
or under the mountain, where the dragons breathe steam,
or somewhere even further, with the Being of Seem,
even though it’s time to come home?
or maybe up high where the thin branches sway,
or up in a nest, with the eaglets, to play,
or playing come-chase-me with the last flitting ray,
stretching out for that last bit of roam…
But the branches slow down, soft and softer they sway,
And the eaglets curl up, in their warm nest of hay,
And the sunbeams rest softly for the coming new day,
And they whisper “It’s time to go home!”
And the stream’s singing softly, a soft lullaby,
and the dragons snore sweetly in the caves as they lie,
and the Being stands tall, to turn off the sky,
For he knows that it’s time to come home.
So homeward it races, when it hears what is said,
and slips through the window to its own little head,
to lay it down soft on its own little bed,
and I smile, and I welcome it home.
For my Christmas Girl…a present.
Trees and flowers seem to shake themselves in the rain, like birds in a puddle, drops flying every which way with the wind.
From her heart the images pour,
color and light and clarity,
through her eyes the pictures soar,
gifted to us in her charity.
Rainwashed brick winds through the town, an ancient ribbon tying the years together, beauty to be found even in the thought-to-be mundane.
Her talent is seemingly boundless,
the camera her all-seeing eye,
her pictures, though technically soundless,
sing a paen to earth and to sky.
Rust streaks paint hymns on ancient stones, revealing the soul within. Centuries of rainfall wash away the inconsequential, until only the eternal survives.
Starkly real or painted lies,
each one a true creation,
they let us see behind her eyes,
Visions smeared through tear-stained glass, all nature in mourning for the sun.
Thank you for your loving heart,
your talent and dedication,
for sharing with us all, your art,
a gift to all the nations.
Silvered drops hop, in puddles, like a child in new rain gear. Hear the tinkling laughter?