Angel I

Angel (I)
 
Wings tremble in stone.
Strong fingers hold fast
            to a massive box,
            a box with no lid;
            a box with no beginning;
            a box with no end.
The inscription is unreadable –
            the language of angels.
What lies within? Sealed and
            forever out of reach?
In the twilight, the angel’s eyes
            look sad;
            his hair flies back
            from his face
            and his countenance
            remains forever solemn.
All the burdens of the world
            are jammed into this box
            and it is getting heavier.

I have written many poems about angels.  I have traveled to England, France and Italy (and other places) and it is always the churches, and the temples that call to me.  I took this picture in the garden in my backyard in Houston... but the poem was inspired by an angel I saw in Oxford, England.  That was before I had my wonderful digital camera.  I still have pictures from England, but I will have to digitize them before I can share... so for now, my lovely garden angel will have to stand in for the angel with the box.  I believe in angels.  All types  Cat angels, dog angels, icon angels, stained glass angels and the angels of our loved ones who have passed.  Angels (in whatever form) are always a reminder that we are spiritual beings having an earthly experience.