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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.
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.
