painting, Hugo Simberg, 1903

This happened long ago when blood

root bloomed, the dazed spring still

holding onto makeshift railings.

We sloshed around winter’s old fields

in poor man’s shoes, bought large

to grow into. We heard the stubble

breathe, caution, caution, saw

something white crumple and fall

from the sky. A heron? Wild swan?

We ran toward it. A wingéd thing,

a heap of feathers we carried home,

her feet too odd for any shoes.

That was the year an angel lived

in our kitchen, recuperating

on the bench beside Mother’s oven.

She isn’t like us, Mother said,

when we’re tired or hurt.

She won’t put up any fuss.

That was the year we learned

about earth and its gravities,

how they hold some of us

down, but free the unearthly.

From the kitchen’s back stoop

we three watched the angel

unfurl her wings one morning

and barefoot take flight

into the blue, infinite sky.