Angels
Three messengers God sent you,
as to Abraham our father,
to give you promise and a future.
They ate your food and
drank your drink,
these guests, these gifts.
So neither weary of the visit
nor laugh at the promise.
For dreams of yesterday are vapor,
condensing on a darkened glass and
creating a misshapen world,
twisting the future as
through a lens encrusted in frost.
Press your hand against the window
to wipe away the mist,
and tomorrow bursts into clarity.
Shadows once blurred bloom
in a vivid panoply of color when
you gaze past the pane.
For there may your messengers—
gifts—like frankincense, gold, and myrrh,
bow low before their Lord of glory.
Personal, Poetry | Christopher Kou | 
August 31, 2009 10:33 PM
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Awesome. Thanks Chris for letting me now you were here.