Haven’t wondered about Heaven
since Sunday school’s cold
pearly gates and alabaster walls
seemed drab by comparison,
and the blinding shine of silver
and gold eternities much too bright
even for the pure. Out of dust
and dirt we rise, generations
personified in living colors.
We need not preach poetry
or pray for more than what’s
before us full with awe—
small enough to see through
purple stems of Wild Hyacinth
on green, on gray—I believe.
drycrikjournal 