Keyhole To Heaven

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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.

.

Angel’s Breath

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Springing up from fertile ground,

angel’s breath, by trouble bound

to human tears, a treasure true;

hope-grown wings on heavenly cue.

Morning Delivers

morning chirp

Morning delivers her first-born sun,

wrapped in swaddling cloud;

shepherd-hills covered with fleeces spun

of sugar before manger are bowed.

Birds upon wings of angel-dew

sing glories to all who will hear;

those who are wise will do well to pursue

as blessings of Christmas appear.

Even Wilted Flowers Know

rudbeckia cold

Even wilted flowers know

to lift their gaze to Heaven;

even broken blossoms sense

that hope is heart’s best leaven.

Even drooping posies dream

of living ever after;

Even frozen florets feel

the warmth of angels’ laughter.