Let There Be Light
Upon a cold windowsill,
Sits a beautiful dove.
Ruffled feathers from the chill,
And bitter darkness from above.
Pondering the biggest concern,
Will the tick-top ever stop?
Yet the top shall still turn,
And the ball shall still drop.
The pane becomes frost,
Dim light becomes among.
Although the night may be lost,
Sky's moon is still hung.
Channeling to yellow from blue,
Melting clear shivering ice.
The heavens are coming onto,
Undoing the blackness with precise.
Copyright © Theresa Moore | Year Posted 2006
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