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Gifts are what we ask for
on days that are foretold
a celebration or an honoring
of years that count us old
We wrap them up in butterflies
and sprinkle them with gold
then store them for the future
pink candles have turned cold
Gifts are what we long for
when days become long nights
a release from fear and letting go
of things that hold us tight
a healing and redemption
a returning to the light
of clear blue skies and open doors
a rainbow in my sight
Gifts are what we are and see
a bird a plant a spacious heart
an eagle spread just like a tree
a taste of tears and pounding waves
of shifting sands and symphonies
of laughing smiles and breaking frowns
I see you
Do you see me?
� Marylou Falstreau 2008 | 
