My heart yearns for the guiltless sleep . . .
of a child who knows no wrong.
A child who drifts like a snow flake . . .
in the arms of an angel's song.

Through the blizzards . . .
this woman treads the roads of life,
Oft times forgetting my soul
has been wrapped in a mantle of white.

When I'm feeling alone . . .
aching for love,
with cold winds stinging my cheeks
there appears a White Dove.

His graceful wings pass a thorn bush.
A drop of red hits the snow.
My soul feels the release . . .
how could I not know.

Winds no longer chill me . . .
gentle snow flakes remind
this woman of a love
she allowed to slip from her mind.

Each strand, there for a reason.
Designs carefully placed.
The weaver had a special pattern
for my mantle of lace.

Unlike any other,
the threads they are spun.
Not one is the same,
yet the weaver's not done.

In the midst of the storm . . .
wrapped in my mantle of white,
I hold to threads spun of love
from the weaver of light.

~For my precious Grandson,
Adam Christopher Stewart~
12/28/01 - 12/28/01