Landing on the greening leaves
of my life each day I live . . .
are wings of stories of my days
and the blessings they did give.
If only I look upon them,
for the brief moment they are here,
and don't make them into memories,
oh, so much I've lost, I fear.
Not to write, is not to breathe.
And not to grasp each day and night.
Only God knows how many butterflies
are left to grace this woman's life.
I ache inside to make each one stay,
their beauty to remember.
Using my pen, I've found a way . . .
To fan a dying ember.
The ink as it flows upon the page . . .
keeps each day a memory.
My pen, my ink, my journal . . .
It's all there for me to see.
Without this lovely way to keep
God's signs of love and care . . .
I might find that I could not recall
that He was ever there.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~
Misty Taggart
~
©2001
