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The Welle of Grace
Sure, new buds grow quickly watered in sunlight, charity, and grace. Fragrant and high, Spring visions tranfix the sense, the eye, and soul. Blessed scent coats the painter's field before the first brush carves a spec. Brighter, grown with the floating Sun more highlights to the canvas fall. Among the hidden wings there stirs a music over the gentle ground. A light, still showing, from the heart hears that rhythm sculpted Rule. As the light ascends up overhead the music it will fade for awhile. In the end, when that light must dim will the least be taken off this hill. And by death, for those last hours watered so they won't run dry, may their tissued colors teach the glory that comes from The welle. [Mark Johnson, copyright 1997] |