It’s funny how something simple can take on a different appearance under different lighting conditions. Our granddaughter was the flower girl at a wedding last week, and while she is beautiful and priceless, as we were twisted in our seats, waiting to see the bride’s grand entrance, I found myself looking at my wife’s hair. In the light of the church, each streak of silver was almost glowing. I was so struck by its beauty, I had to reach out and touch it.
by Mike Patrick
Her hair, now dry from early morning’s rain,
is showing flecks of silver, it reflects the sun again.
A few strands belong to children, a few to advancing age,
and a few belong to wisdom, released from reason’s cage,
but most belong to my resolve, and to my needy hand.
I see beauty in her silver; every twisted strand.