Autumn Rose Wood Poet I do not know?

More Than Just Me

Poetry is more

It is not just leaves on the ground that the child piles up and jumps upon
It is not just a lone woman's journey or an old man's lament
It is not just anything

Poetry is more

Laughing rays of golden Heaven kisses
Butterfly wings and Saints' remembered bliss
True connects and all the other near misses

Poetry is more

Than you
Than me
Than the average angel eye can see

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Nigel Fawcett November 1, 2008 at 11:27 AM Beautifully put; wonderfully true. Love this poem, Autumn. A wallow through the soup bears testimony to your well chosen words. Great that you got Saint's in there on All Saints day, but perhaps that was the spark that bore this fruit for us to enjoy. Love, Nigel