Outlines On The Sky

By Ken Woodley

To feel the tips of your fingers in the clouds

reaching out for my wishing you were there.

Then your hand touches mine

and my heart-of-a-child wish comes true.

Our fingers intertwine

and you trace outlines on the sky

that mean nothing but love

for those wandering alone

and lonely in a crowd of people

wandering alone and lonely

seeking thoughts that seem blown

like butterflies fluttering in a breeze,

desperately close but just out of reach.

Prayers they were composing.

Prayers praying to be composed.

Prayers trying to compose those trying to pray.

Answers that are waiting

along their yearning journey.

Then one person stops, looks skyward, staring,

and reaches out to another,

who reaches out for someone else.

They point toward the sky

and I feel your heart beating deeper,

further into the world

as I join them

and look up in wonder

at the outlines on the sky.

By Ken Woodley

To feel the tips of your fingers in the clouds
reaching out for my wishing you were there.
Then your hand touches mine
and my heart-of-a-child wish comes true.
Our fingers intertwine
and you trace outlines on the sky
that mean nothing but love
for those wandering alone
and lonely in a crowd of people
wandering alone and lonely
seeking thoughts that seem blown
like butterflies fluttering in a breeze,
desperately close but just out of reach.
Prayers they were composing.
Prayers praying to be composed.
Prayers trying to compose those trying to pray.
Answers that are waiting
along their yearning journey.
Then one person stops, looks skyward, staring,
and reaches out to another,
who reaches out for someone else.
They point toward the sky
and I feel your heart beating deeper,
further into the world
as I join them
and look up in wonder
at the outlines on the sky.