It’s what you are thinking that wears you down
plus a dull afternoon that promises to shine
but does not. Yet you push on.
It’s not you who move your feet, they just take you
so it’s round the corners, past silent houses, under
bony arches of trees you want
to call out by name like friends.
Your shoulders sag: trees have no names,
they have no use of them, thriving in community,
and long outlive your sort.
Fine mist veils your eyes, covers your hair
but there must be more– it cannot be otherwise.
You come to this place as often before,
where an angel has life immortal in stone,
so does you no favors. It only waits.
Yet you step inside the mossy wall
to gaze at blind eyes, those ponderous wings
that should lift it upward to heaven.
Such an angel, this small one,
it dreams impossible things; it endures;
it bears the elements; speaks no ill will.
You close your eyes and mind slows,
skin feels rain as silken air, and
your breathing in this time between time is enough.