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Strange Angel.

They appear, here and there,

in books,

in sentimental American series,

in films.

No feathers, usually,

no trumpets

just informal.

 

They save a poor struggling human

and then disappear into thin air,

usually in a back view,

going down the road.

 

Despite not really believing in angels,

I think I’ve met a few

in my time.

 

And now,

I suspect,

another has appeared,

in cords, with rucksack.

Standard issue.

No wings.

 

At a moment when my artistic life is

fraught with stresses,

disappointments,

and frustrations

that hang upon the beatings of my heart so

that I can scarcely trust that I will take

the next breath;

be able to utter

the next word,

one would think a gentle gardener,

trimming away the tangles,

stroking the grass into reluctant green,

filling the newly dug flowerbeds with rich darkness,

lovingly placing tiny plants into soft earth,

bringing my garden back to life,

would bring no comfort .

But he does.

 

One kind of growing

nourishes another

I suppose.

 

He drives off in a black car,

much set about with boxes.

As far as I could see,

he was still there

at the end of the road.

 

 

 

 

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