The God Of Little Things

How many times I’ve seen you there hiding in the green,
As the world walks by so busily and you remain unseen,
Yet tiny little rosebud, whose more beautiful than you?
Whether sun touches on your petals or early morning dew.

The sun reaches down to kiss you with it’s golden glow,
As you unfurl your delicate beauty like a crimson satin bow.
The blackbird in the pear tree in celebration sings,
And gives a prayer of thanks to the God of little things.

As do I.

- W.M.

In The Park

Do our ghosts still ring out?

Do they sing our songs?

In the light through the trees do they remember

the heady days of our youth and of our friendship?

When nothing seemed impossible

and our dreams had known no doubt or fear? 

Do the trees remember

all the days we were there?

Do they recall our laughter in the clearing

and our crazy party in the rain?

Do they whisper to each other

of the mad children who once graced them?

Do they miss us and speak our names

like we speak theirs? 

- WM