The icy storm of your anger washes over me,
freezing my face into a sullen mask of pain.
I won’t give you the pleasure of knowing what you’ve done,
but tonight in my dark room it’s going to rain.
the black cat sits and thinks
what are you thinking, cat?
will I ever know?
rain falls in my garden
but the sky is light
are the seagulls crying?
Behind her veil of stars
the moon peers at the earth
and winks at me.
a streak of red lightning
he zips through the air
and the world is brighter
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?