Stained with grief,
this day creeps across the threshold
like a slug,
slimed with despair,
sunk into its own sticky weight.
Surely the night will sprout
wings, gossamer dreams,
newly minted hopes
like golden coins tossed
into a bruised sky.
See, there they are,
every last one,
like a child's fairy tale.
Magic dust and good deeds
repaid and a fool's heart
naïve with love,
each a hope once held dear,
each a prayer once whispered,
clear and shining,
from your lips to God's ear.
(Published in coilMagazine! Winter 2001 issue.)
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