It is sort of colourless,

the Earth. Though

I can hear the voice of spring,

I cannot help being disappointed at the slow

blooming flowers, that grow up

pursing the sun

to no avail.

Then I see the long boneless bodies

of angels

ascending like arrows

into the depths of a starless sky,

and I think to myself that he

who has gone into

shadows, hissing a private song

is much better off with his visible scars than

their invisible wings.

And I wonder, will he come home

or pass like water between unwebbed feet, to the ocean

where all that is written

is washed away with the sand?



Copyright © 1991 by Allison Grayhurst





Published in “New Mystics” May 2018



You can listen to the poem by clicking below:



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