ONE WINTER MORNING WE MEET
THE ANGEL. By chance. Or by design. Her
gaze is cast down, her plumage unfurled. She speaks of love,
mobility, power. Imperious in her grace, she resembles us. A spirit
made of flesh, this messenger has passed from heaven to earth--where
she remains. With us, among us. Her back, her unprotected part,
speaks mutely of damage. Like us, she has known gravity and pain.
She is air become stone become woman, her flights sequential
transits, transformations. She bears a blessing. She is the body of
love transfigured in the world, not beyond it. In the cold graveyard,
where other wings enfold eons of sleep, her feathers (fetters?) lift,
open. We turn, she casts her soul into the air.