Is there any wonder

That a woman like me, or a man like you,

Would want to pen the words of a poem,

Or stroke the pigment of a portrait,

Or glide graceful to the triune beat of the waltz,

If on a regular weekday, timecards punched and dinner waiting,

A woman like me, or a man like you,

Could walk out the door,

Look up,

And find Heaven hovering over her backyard?