Thursday, April 5, 2012

Number Fifty Two

In branches, on street corners, in familiar rooms are the ones watching over us.  They are visible and invisible.  They talk through the sounds of birds, they talk through falling water, through soft murmurs or an off-hand remark..

Yet we feel abandoned here, in the great silence of these dying, far-flung stars.  We feel alone in our bodies, in our death.  And we don't know our own angels, the ones who have loved us, the ones who surround us, both living and not.

We don't know our own angels.  We are deaf to their voice -- the wind in high granite, rain hitting the leaves, a sigh.  We can't see them when someone is waving, someone sleeps in a doorway, someone steps toward us for the embrace.

It's warmer and the birds arrive -- finally telling us everything.

1 comment:

  1. Retirement: I looked for images in the clouds--the first time since I was a kid lying on the grass. There were a lot of fish, a few dogs...This one's a whale.