As an early morning blanket mist folds up along the mountain peaks waiting for the first warm kiss of sun, I think of you. A cornucopia of memories flow like clear water on its voyage to the sea.
The silence is gently broken. A yellow-breasted meadowlark atop a fence post sings the only sermon it knows. It's song of hope surpasses the loud ear-splitting sound of man's weapons of war.
Somewhere the edge of night is falling, and a mother holds a wounded child to her breast. Black clouds of burning oil fill the sky. Cries of sorrow fall on the malefic ears of the deaf. Blind eyes see only the gain of more mammon as innocent blood soaks through the cloth of peace.
The droit seeds of truth are planted deep into all crazed hearts of stone. The poets gnomon of hope beats...
1 comment:
My mom's birthday is March 18th, 1934. She lived to Oct 5th, 2006. Leaving me was inevitable, I never dreamed the missing would be this great. I have learned many things were true that I argued all along were not. Age is a blessing in a funny kind of way.
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