February 2, 1995
No moon that night,
but the stars were bright,
and it was, to me, a wondrous sight.
An Angel, A Poet, and a Saint named Joe,
had come to tell me what I know.
What they said, or what I heard,
though I wouldn’t quote them word for word,
was as quiet and as gentle as an evening breeze,
as it whispers and it rustles through the touching leaves,
and it wonders as it lingers in my heart so still,
and it waits to remind me
as nothing else will…
When I get impatient, frustrated and cry,
when I find myself daring to question why,
Oh the secret they told me is big and it’s bold,
I wear it around me when my soul gets cold,
As I sat on my porch and I gazed at the stars,
they breathed out, “It’s Eden, this world of yours.”
I had smiled in that moment as I knew it was true,
and I watched the three fade, the way memories do,
until they were only fireflies of afterglow,
An Angel, A Poet, and a Saint named Joe.