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Poem

Sometimes I feel your soul nearby...I need a sign to verify 
that life goes on after we die, something known by you and I.
 
So I laid back and closed my eyes, and fell asleep, by and by,
then I awoke abruptly, having thought I heard a sigh.

I rolled over in my bed, to merely check the time
and felt a cold and gripping chill travel up my spine.

There on the bedside clock, the glowing numbers were aligned:
Zero, three, one three, it had to be a sign.

The month and day of my birth, at least in this lifetime,
by this very number, I found myself defined.

I continued to see this number, for days and days combined,
but I was frankly skeptical, logic ruled that I decline.

I really wanted these events to be real and true,
I really wanted to believe, to know it's really you.
Try a different number please, try another clue,
and if it happens once again, my hopes will be renewed.

The next few weeks another sign, it was as if on cue,
the numbers eight and one and seven, the house in which I grew.

This phenomenon still happens, and I smile with sheepish rue,
I swear that each and every word of this poem is really true.


©Danielle White

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