Miraculous
The candle in the sky
Burns on always dripping more
White hot dots of wax on the black face
Of the far side of my heart.
It goes on beating,
Like a warble of a chickadee,
A bell sadly asking why, why,
The old grey wind wavering out
Something that feels like an answer.
It goes on beating, beating, beating,
And if that is not a miracle,
I do not know what is.
If I am not a miracle, this white-hot eclipse,
This tiny trilling feathered thing, then they
Do not exist and never will.
In the Garden
Somewhere,
She is
Dreaming of
Drooping wings
And
Frosted violets.
On Angels
On these long crackling bonfire mornings
I sit here shivering in the half-light
And think about if
Angels have bruises on their knees,
Or patches of dry skin in awkward places,
Or if they ever get cold up there
In the gauzy clouds when it snows,
Or if the wind ever nips their noses, or
If a snowstorm for us down here
Means a snowstorm for them,
Or if their eyes
Look anything like mine.