He dips a finger in, and makes wrinkle‘s in his pond.
An echo across the plane, a wave gently sloping,

His light shone through these wrinkles,
A wave builds to the heavens, only to roll to an edge that it will by no means attain.

Both hands dipped in, he parts the clouds now,
And peers through a tear in the shape of an angels wings.

He stares at me now, for I am blinded by his radiance,
He grins, Blushes, and lowers his gaze.

His handprints linger across the heavens,
Where I know he has been, where he need not go again.

© 2002 Roger L Baty

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