By Avlen L’rae
I pray my wings will fit me well
if ever I get to heaven;
and I pray the one I love so much
will be there in the house we live in;
and I hope it’s made of wood and bricks
— not of silver and gold —
and the roads that we walk upon
are all full of potholes.
I hope the waters are a bit too muddy
and get mossy as they flow;
and that they’re full of bass and trout
and a couple of good fishing holes.
I hope the trees turn color
when summer turns to fall,
and snowmen can be built
when winter comes to call.
I hope the shapes of flowers
aren’t perfect as can be,
and that to make them come alive
you have to prune dead leaves.
Oh, I hope heaven is much like this world
because this world is what we know;
and if heaven is so perfect
we might not want to go.
So if my halo tilts a little,
and if my gown’s not straight,
and if my harp I can’t play well …
well, chalk it up to fate.
And if I can’t have a pole,
or a fishing boat to sail,
the most that I can hope for
is my wings to fit me well.