The tree tinsel is whispering
in sparks of gold-white, rose-red, blue-orange
fire blown of silver breath.
A startled mourning dove whips free of sleep,
a scream of air under feathers, soft--
soft as snow thunders beneath our boots.
The world spreads its white desert presence
toward outer space. Bare trees flex wizened fingers--
ready to clap, to roar, to rejoice!
And we are waiting yet.
We all are waiting.
Already. But not yet.
That is quite beautiful.
ReplyDeleteAnd I second Dr Impson's opinion that you should, if inclined to, submit some of your poems to the Christendom Review and to other periodicals!
All right--I'll try to get on with it. Thanks for your encouragement!
DeleteOh, yes, beautiful!
ReplyDeleteThank you, Dr. Impson!
Delete