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.
Tales for Life 
Thanks for the pingback/link.
Oh how I love this poem. I have read it over and over and am at a loss for words to say anything more than Thank You! Your friend from Michigan days where trees were such stalwart companions, present everywhere, silently inviting us into an embrace – and yet as you said so humorously really – they will long outlive our sort! and invite the next generation. Your friend, Susan in Arizona
Susan, how lovely a response! Yes, we knew about ntrees where we grew up…and likely angels on of sort or another…and I am still in love with them both, too! You are always welcome, and I’m pleased you are reading posts. Best to you– and hug.
Oh, dear, Susan–I meant: of one sort or another….:)
This rings so true for me, Cynthia. No outer manifestations, just that inner connection that moves beyond statues and boundaries and connects to the ineffable. Beautiful, thank you.
Of course you would undertand this, and I am always appreciative that you do. Thanks kindly for those words! Best to you.