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.