She floats, in that white dress,
just slightly above the ground,
Her head back, at times,
with the music of Her laughter
echoing off the lighthouse,
off these rocks, born when
the Earth was an orb slowly
he hears the sound of Her,
and he runs barefoot
through fields of broken glass,
while snipers, heavily armed,
and She softly calls his name,
and Her smile lights every
dark corner of the nighttime world,
and even the dark places
in his soul;
he runs, undaunted, determined,
and She beckons,
with that trademark crooked index finger,
and he runs and runs;
one day, he will catch Her,
and bring Her into his arms.
November 15, 2009, for the Wifey.
Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.