I stand on childhood’s
tiptoes and the oxygen
in my lungs is stillborn
in its stall as I peer through
.
the keyhole to heaven;
all is angels’ wings
and perfume and
brightness and I squirm
.
to reach just a sliver higher.
I strain with broken grip
and limping spirit and
if I shift too much the
.
vision fades and the scent
eludes, wisp snatched by
wayward breeze. So I
peer through the keyhole
.
and feel the brush of angels
in flight and linger to
catch the smell of home
before I lower myself
.
to my side of the door,
waiting, ever waiting
for someone to turn
the key.
.
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I know.
I know you do. I thought of you actually as I wrote the last lines…
Thank you so much for thinking of me, Mel–funny, how several of us seem to do that, as we write our individual and personal poetry. I have a poem tomorrow–for you and your friends who are grieving.
Wow – looking forward to it!
So poignantly beautiful. Thank you.
Thanks Judy! 🙂
Wow. Love the construction on this one.
Thanks! I couldn’t hep but wonder at that shaft of light floating down through the blossoms. a great incentive toward pondering!
Lovely.
Thank you!
Lovely thoughts. I always look forward to your poetry.
Thanks Stephen!!