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The Gift
When I’m an angel I won’t feel on my face, The bitter cold of falling snow, Tiny pieces of white lace. When I’m an angel I won’t be able to dry, Tears flowing down a child’s face When he begins to cry. When I’m an angel On a warm summer day, I won’t feel the gentle breeze As it blows along my way. When I’m an angel On a wet lonely night, I won’t smell the falling rain Trying as hard as I might. When I’m an angel I won’t be able to hold, The scared hand of a little boy Reassuring him that he’s not alone. When I’m an angel I can’t pick the daffodils, The promise of an early spring Yellow among the hills. When I’m an angel I shall never kiss, The sleeping face of a little girl There is so much that angels miss. It’s ok to be of angels, But I’d rather be of man, To touch, to smell, to hold, to feel, God’s gift to every man.
Poem copyrighted © 2004 by Lydia Warner Miller Web site copyrighted © 2012 by Lydia Warner Miller Cell: 530-391-5056 Home: 530-644-5594 email: brokenbadge8@yahoo.com lydia-miller.artistwebsites.com Fine Art America.com search Lydia Miller 2379 Indian Wells Road Placerville, CA 95667 |
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