by Michael H. Brownstein
From the doorway an angel in red
a fire of love, an entrance to hope.
All who enter here do not burn.
She stands behind the door
peering out, looks past the trees,
winter and her grass remains green.
How can this angel be sad?
I watch her from my window
and do not understand.
Wait a moment with me, please.
I have to tell her something.
I have to tell her she is loved.
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