ON MY WINDOW PANE
A cold morning frost,
greeted the sun;
visible behind clouds of mist;
as reflections gleam and splash,
upon the trees and grass.
Then, a twinkle caught my eye,
for on my window pane;
was a stream of stain,
and I wonder, here and now;
did it come from clouds above?
Or, was the stain a tear,
To tell me, God was here?
D.D.Sonnenburg
8/17/20000
A poet must reach out and blow winds of inspiration, and imagination; into the echoed thoughts, of her reader's most secret, inner voice.
Author: D.D.Sonnenburg
The Hands of Time-Book-1(2000)
[This message was edited by TaoSeeker on Saturday March 13th, 2004 at 06:27 PM.]
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