Poetry Directory

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 © 2005 by Lydia Warner Miller