Ode to a Foster Parent revised poem

Written by: dave archuletta

Red to black of heart are those who speculate on tiny souls to different grace?

Taken from the depressed, they prey upon those that share in their loss of faith

Such are the treacherous rains that have marked recorded as the brightest of the 
brightest of our summer's days

We are the ingratiated plethora that will answer for this false humanitarian call to 
ways


However, it is still children of the world’s misery that for a harsh wind blows

Yet, sometimes our mind's eyes do not see, nor do we hear; the simplest of 
metaphor can infer to humanity's most stalwart and bold

For want of our children born in spring but now of winters hold

Is the lonesome forlorn summertime cry of the Snow Fence Home

It is here where fosters a moral ticket steeped

On lonely hilltop it waits and to our ears will seek

The rushing empty summer winds, through weathered pickets sweep

Openly sounding the howling 

For the care to the cold, cold company who are of the windblown 
plighted of our indifferent keep