This isn’t a poem.
It is a moment that wants
to be set free, a small
thing with a bigger imagination,
a plaintive whistling in the dark,
a boy with a bird on his shoulder,
a shadowed heart that also blazes.
This is a pause in lavender twilight,
a thought that strikes dew-laden air,
a random stop on a serpentine trail that
detains us so we may become less lost.
This is a minor rescue despite the rending.
It is a moment of intimacy saved for
others frail or frightened or
hungry for something else.
Here arrives night, dreams or not,
still an old woolen blanket
so that inside it we may camp,
carried by night dense with falling stars,
warming our hands over pulses of
heat from stubs of saved candles.
This is a memorial, yes, but a story
of miracles. The morning comes like a scarf
drifting over the face. It has always a
luminosity that wants not to let us go,
our human hopes close like protection,
with recognition discerned in kindness,
and soon everyone more known
to one another in the struggle.
Angels, that’s what seems closer now,
the angels summoned of our longing
or our surrendering,
each drifting this way, a chorus.
To hold up.
To forge a way to new horizons.
So if this is no poem,
then consider it a memo,
a way of remembering
all that is good about the world,
the things we must not misplace,
and promises made to keep:
find hallowed the life we each can mold
now, not then nor far tomorrow,
and also release it, exuberant or weary,
with the wings and winds of God
to the hands that will open.
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