Of something loved
Betwixt a crow and a morning dove
One takes flight it never returns
The other comes back
To the heart which yearns
Smoldering wick in the darkened room
Where the flame once brightly burned
The soul grieves in autumn leaves
Newborn flowers not yet turned
Sown seeds firmly planted
Into waiting soil
Next spring when birds sing
Show results of past tence toil
Boughs of trees bending in wind
Seem to lean in season
A sun that slumbers
Giving in to reason
Days pass slowly
The moon pleasant to the eye
Faithful appearance each night
Never questioning why
As expected it is just there
To calm a grieving heart
All healing comes in its own good time
Over coming all despair
~Moses~
© 2009 Moses Lestz - All Rights Reserved
