SPIRIT OF THE WIND

Denise M. Morin

I will miss you more than you know

But before you go I want to thank you

For your strength which endured the ice storms and the winds

Through decades of time

For your great aura that gave me security and serenity

For harbouring the lovely creatures within your arms

And your limbs that sing in the wind

The colour that lights up the yard in

the growing dimness of autumn

For your canopy of shade that cools my summer days

Your spirit will live on despite my shame at what must be done

My conscience will be heavy with grief

All I see now are the qualities and gifts you’ve

brought to my home

Your faults? Like a babe, you have none

It will take another lifetime to replace you

But I must say adieu

For you must go. Your roots have grown in a city

Not in a forest where you would live forever

I bid your spirit dwellers farewell

I shall remember you always as the great protector

Spirit of the Wind !

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The Forgotten Angel

Denise Morin

Oh, Guardian Angel, I forgot

That you were there from the start,

Your shielding arms, abandoned there

For moonlit nights and wifely art.

And you, neglected though you were,

Lingered on and shed your Light.

What lonely vigil waits for you,

No thanks, no pay, and working nights.

Have you grown old along with me,

Waiting for a word, a prayer,

To hear I need your hand in mine,

Eternity, our souls to share?

I'm wiser now and I regret

The betrayals of my mind,

How could I overlook the mite

Who righteous paths has helped me find?

We'll meet someday, across the spheres,

In a world that bathes in Light,

Just me, your lifelong Guinevere,

And you, my Arthur of the Night.

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THE CRY OF THE GULL

Denise Marguerite Morin

I walk along quiet summer streets,

Admiring fields of wild flowers

That abound in this town that I love so.

A piercing cry breaks through my rêverie.

A child! A child is hurt, and cries frantically for its mother.

My eyes search every doorway, every fence corner until

I find the source of the melancholy wail.

This is not a child. High on a lamp-post, head erect,

chest fluttering to the beat of its own cries, stands a gull.

An ordinary gull. A scavenger.

Its cries evoke memories of New England towns, walks along

an ocean beach, quiet moments, cherished holidays.

Wonderful feelings and holiday moods stir again within my

breast, all brought back to my lonely heart by the piercing call

of an inland gull.

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