I'll Run w/ Wild Horses
The ancient elm obscured the delicate etching on the colorful glass. The red brick - as if it had been molded from Georgia clay - sat strong, hugging this ancient creature, giving the window a feeling of being encased in blood. The tints of glass in shades of blue, purple, gold and aqua were a stark contrast to the bleeding brick. Its exquisite features sat perched on the sill with the words "I was glad" etched deep into the granite. Who wrote these words? Why? And what manner of beauty was I beholding? What small cell of history had I stumbled across? I found myself wanting to know the inner workings of the person who wrote these three simple words. "I was glad", they slipped so softly from my lips I barely realized I said them. A light breeze wept sunlight through the leaves and reflected off the colored glass. A thought came to mind, "Don't forget to be grateful that you love words." All well and good, but how was I to describe these snared thought...