Devoted Hands of Child
Her faith must have come from her mother's voice:
that woman who took her to church taught her how to pray,
perhaps angels resemble her in her pure innocence;
does Lily ever skips a prayer...wouldn't she rather play?
For now her stuffed dolls lay on the neat carpet with a Glade's rose scent,
later she will rewind the red music box and listen to hymns...
while mages of Heaven appear within the clouds of the escaping sunset;
she knows that it's the home of children who died of an illness.
" Lord, you made all that these small eyes see and admire...
let me grow up without pain and fear, yet much I have to accomplish;
my desire is a wish for peace that all can feel and share,
let evil replace goodness, and light darkness: never to be buried in ash! "
The calm evening of August brings on the shrieking sound of a lonely cricket;
she hears rustling noises coming from the trees below, but she shivers a bit:
what could it be? She peeks and sees an owl perched, and his cry stupefies,
did he come to watch her devoted hands of child that pray as the mist intensifies?
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2015
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