Daniel Larson Poet Rhyme

The Blessing

Was not the words he wrote,
     nor the words he spoke . . .
     rather the song he sang of hope
     that brought him before the Pope.
As he stood in the rain
     he searched not for fame . . .
     yet in his heart there burned a flame
     as he hummed his soft refrain.
Blessings came down from high,
     though he could not grasp why . . .
     all he can do now is sigh,
     for all he wants is to be dry.
When the man dressed in white
     disappears from sight
     and the crowd shuffles into night . . .
     he sings his song with new delight.

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