The Death Angel stands in repose, eyes upon his wings
blinking open and shut in fluttering waves;
lives going away, lives just coming in.
A bright spring day, almost warm, birds singing,
and the world’s coming alive again, green overcoming grey,
but you aren’t here with me, your favorite season.
Our daughter cries in my arms, hungry or tired, and I try to
soothe her, calm her, promise her the bottle of warm milk,
and a soft song to quiet her pain.
The Smoky Mountains are green and mist covered, still an emerald
against the sapphire crown of the sky, still were dreams, ancient and cool
call me, still were we felt so close to whatever is behind the sky.
Inside, feeding our daughter her warm milk, calming her and quieting her.
A pain overcome with a sweetness, round and round even at the start.
Sorrows come and sweetness washes through, and then washes out.
And that Death Angel’s eyes blink open and shut, lives coming, lives going,
and I still feel you near, and a soft warmth with the ache and loss,
and an eye opened with our daughter’s birth. May it be sweet before that eye