I watch a line of birds move in sync
As if they are sketching an eyebrow
Across some heavenly maiden's face.

As the sun slowly rises on the horizon
Its color daubs on her face and cheeks.
The clouds become her apple cheeks.

The sunrise palette paints her pink
And a fiery sun rises to becomes
The tint for her pouty full lips.

Higher the sun rises in the sky, and
Filters streams in waves of golden hair
With long locks about her comely face.

So long as we keep that child-like quality
Of the innocence to see the things unseen
We are enabled with a sense of wonderment

And the ability to see the world anew,
To imagine, to dream, to continue on
In the persistence of hope.