Sunday, February 5, 2017

He did not look like death
His eyes were much too kind
His voice too light
Compassion in his soul
The morning did not feel like death
The sun too strong
And bright with promises
No shroud of mist hung round the door
No fog
Despairing us with hopelessness
A gentle breeze
Played with the leaves
A joyful bird
Sang pretty tune
And time chose not to stop
The way I thought it might
And when he came into the room
No gloom licked at the corners
No somber forces elbowed in
Just golden shafts across the floor
And dust motes sparked
As tears fell quietly
In prism drops

Sara Mathews     February 2017
For Charlie