To Donald Sharp
By Thomas Davis
A rain of sunshine through the tattered clouds –
And then he stands there speckled by the light.
A man not yet a child, his spirit crowds
It’s way into a pulsing song in flight
Across the years of heartbeats pumping blood,
Light shining in his eyes, his voice more sky
Than earth, his presence like a dancing flood
Of sunflower gold stirred by a breeze’s sigh.
Born in a rain of light, he travels trails
Where thunderclouds are luminous with storm
And even pain, mortality’s travails,
Are metamorphosed to a time-bound form
Of breath exhaling light into a field
Where spirit born of light becomes life’s yield.