Calling All Angels

disabledonline.com

There are days and years when one knows

one is being helped and guided.

Then there are days (and sometimes weeks)

when it all slams you upside the head

and all you can manage is a feeble

"help!" directed towards the ceiling.

Hope is the thing that keeps you looking up,

waiting for the shine of gossamer wings

in the lamplight,

against all known information

that tells you what is going on

is unbearably real

and impossibly sad. 

That it is, quite possibly, irrevocable,

and you might need to find strength

you no longer have

to get through

what lies ahead,

and you know now is when
you need your angels.

Yet you also know that

that muffled "Help!" is, somewhere, 

duly heard and noted,

that this week, this month, this difficult winter,

will pass, and spring will come again,

creeping greenly across the land, 

and spilling golden over the mountains,

turning everything now white and gray  

and bare and dead

all new-green-leafed.

It's the shine on those wings,

fluttering up by the ceiling,

that keeps me going

on a day like today,

when, without them, 

what is being borne

is simply  too much

for one small tired human woman

to bear.

And, by now, I know the program:
today will end.
I will go to bed.
And, as always, I will wake up
tomorrow to a brand new day,
the angel of the dawn
having paid me a visit.
And we will 
begin again.

 Fireblossom's prompt at Real Toads: to write about angels who are not Christmas angels, hit a responsive nerve.