Looking Through Stained Glass

Seven Days

On Monday

Voice soft as the murmuring breeze, He whispers “Go.”
Thus the first scream begins the life she’ll know
A beautiful baby, that didn’t cry but so much
A godsend, whose parents will raise her as such

On Tuesday

Playing in the yard, one late evening with a friend
She tells of a stranger watching from the dark end
When asked, how did she so young, know what to do
Her answer is, a soft wind in her ear told her to

On Wednesday

White powder fresh on her nose, she smokes a joint
Ignoring voices of convention, but that’s the point
But even as she sits, in the dense herbal haze
She hears the breeze murmuring, there are better ways

On Thursday

Well aware without thesis papers, she’ll repeat the term
She stands with her fellow protesters, convictions firm
Even though the tight handcuffs are starting to sting
Susurrus comforts; she’s doing the right thing

On Friday

Her job, her spouse, her kids, her life
She questions the constant stress and strife
Palms upwards she wonders how much longer
Feels the kiss of a breeze making her stronger

On Saturday

Family reunion surrounded by many a grand
And a few greats who sits while she stands
Some family smirk, knowing she’s in her glory
Soft winds making fresh, her oft told stories

On Sunday

She lays frail in her bed, but she is hardly meek
Her years are many, but she often joked, ‘tis but a week
And thus end her days, upon this earth to roam
Voice soft as the murmuring breeze, He beckons, “Come home.”


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