The little angel sat on its rock.
All winter the wind blew on its face.
It did not mind,
its hands folded between its knees,
its head bowed as if remembering.
I looked behind the garage
from time to time,
to its place.
It was always there,
contemplative, quiet.
Once I trembled from the cold
and thought,
I’ll take you in,
but I knew the cold
did not hurt the angel.
That its peace belonged to the twilight,
the morning,
the coming and going of children
in the school beyond the fence,
and I went in.
Spring appeared.
The little angel did not move.
It stayed where it was.
Tulips came up, and daffodils,
cups and trumpets.
The little angel still looked down,
its hands still,
white as clouds.
Then one afternoon another soul
like itself appeared.
He was warm and had dark eyes
with snowflakes in them.
He kept looking here and there,
no older than the angel,
gazing at the ground,
putting his hand on the angel’s head.
And I sensed in the air
some ethereal sound,
a ray of joy,
the rising of the moon
in the daylight sky.
Michael looking through the fence
at the cars and children
as the angel had done.
And I knew
why I never took the angel in.