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.
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.