this day is leaden.
a breeze of pine and birdsong
trembles at my open window.
the trees are taut and poised
for a spring that is yet far from here.
the teakettle gurgles its high song
while waiting for me. the old snows are disappearing into earth
and sky; now one thing and then another.
on gray days like this
one wonders about angels, at least I do.
not Gabriel or Michael,
but the unknown legions of others treading lightly.
speaking so softly that only God can hear;
but what can they tell Him that He does not already know?
what did they tell
from beneath the tsunami
from Mardi Gras
parliament, the oval office
or the wildflower cafe when
I added cream to my coffee?
if they are here to tell us something,
if they be messengers, then let them speak
more clearly than the winds,
which at the very least tell me from whence they come.
with angels, we are simply left to wrestle
with their silent witness.
as mute as stars
and just as distant.
if they are now the strangers at my door,
and after inviting them in,
I pour the tea for us,
will they just stare into the distance
sipping slowly, nodding appreciation -
or, when I offer sugar,
will they politely touch my hand,
shrug their shoulders, and,
pulling their cloaks a bit tighter,
turn to whisper urgently to someone
just out of sight?