Keyhole To Heaven


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


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.