1 Angels think of little of consequences
on mornings like this, cold like steel thawing.
Singing chorales so old they sound avant-
us to mortal tympani, they rejoice
all over my clean walk. If snow could sing,
it would sing like this, crooning in low brass.
2 The Wise Men travelled in 3s. Stooges, too,
and Blind Mice. Whereas, the Angels keep watch
in companies, recruit the clergy, old
old women whose grandsons went up in flames,
and pods, squads, prides, and bright congregations.
We are well cared for in our ignorance.
3 You write from the Berkshires that all is well,
your husband having found a new wife, more
than 1/3 his age, and your sleep unmarred
by magic realism. An Angel, dressed
as a weather vane, surmounts your peaked roof
and chortles. Alleluia. All is Clear.
4 Through these white nights we trail crimson roses,
Ariadne's string. The Angels retrieve
them, smell them, watch them fade, flowers bestowed
on cheek and breast, but temporarily.
Our sin was not forever, but will do.
Steel gives way. And snow, caught by the great spruce.
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