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Angel Hair

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A warm, and melon-tinted sun was climbing down,
Soothingly falling upon our young backs.
Green country grass swayed in the wind’s calm rhythm,
While the essence of the air whispered its freedom.

Mom and I were playing in the yard,
Down where the little hill slopes down to the flatter part of the acreage.
We were skipping joyfully through the tall grass,
Laughing, chatting, and bonding,
Without the slightest intention of doing so.
I was naturally too young to understand life, love, or faith.

A pearly and delicate fuzz of a thing
Floated across our vision through the graceful air.
Was that my cat’s hair?
“What is that white thing Mom?” My curious finger pointed.

“That, is angel’s hair,” replied Mom’s bliss voice.
“The angels are washing their hair!
Catch it!”
Delighted at the thought of angels about us,
I leaped to capture the feeble substance within my clutch,
Almost stumbling to the ground.

I opened my sweaty hand,
And there it lay, like a hurt butterfly.
In the mist of the prickly hairs,
Sat a tiny tanned speck.

I caressed my fingers against the fuzz.
Satin. So soft and smooth.
It had to be true.
Only an angel’s hair could be that soft and elegant.
Mom smiled, gazing down at me.

Now I am not as young as I once was,
But every time a pearly, delicate fuzz of a thing,
Softly glides in front of me,
I remember.

I remember a setting sun, the southern grass,
And Mom’s smiling eyes.
I remember her affection to show me the simple beauties.
I remember the fragile hair,
And I think…

An angel’s washing her hair.
How marvelous, how precious!
Another glimpse of God’s charming handiwork,
And a glorious glimpse of Heaven.

One day, I’ll be playing with my daughter,
And an angel will fly by,
I’ll get to share with her the glory,
Of a simple, simple splendor.





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