These are the days thick with angels.
Here’s the tiny one from my childhood,
in her pale pink gown, silver wings chipped,
her painted plaster face fading but serene.
Here’s the handmade one on my mantle
dressed in green velvet, wings of soft white feathers,
her banner trimmed in gold, proclaiming hopefully—
Peace Be With You Always.
Here, three enormous plywood angels
adorn my neighbor’s yard, painted white,
bedecked with strings of lights and
caught mid-flight, wings and trumpets raised
announcing joy to the grey skies of my street.
And here, the most important angel,
invisible and vital—the one who steered
while you slid off the snowy country road
and into a field—a lovely field with no precipice,
no pond, no enormous tree in your path.
That one? Oh, that is my favorite angel.