My Wings

My Wings

My Wings

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.





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