By Lady Jira

This Angel sings her sacred song to thee,
Honoring thy gift of sonnet poetry.

Our wings not clipt we flit about freely.
Your work of beauty seems to hold me rapt.

In hopes of easing vigil's pain a while,
I offer vigil's keeper simple smile,

And eagerly await your next "word pile",
A description for your art that's hardly apt.

Would that my words breath you life anew,
Then Angel's work has been rewarded too.

What new treasures would thy conscience brew?
A mind spring that has yet been hardly tapt.


ęcopyright 2002