Winged

When angels grow weary of the weight of this world,

When they tire of standing before men’s madness

baffled,

When they have lingered too long

before our stone hearts

with open palms

When our grabby hands have brushed them aside

one time too often,

They loose their tethers and take a holiday

and commandeer the hollow bones 

of birds.

With highjacked wings

they ride the winds that eddy and pool

between green hills.

They circle,

keeping their teetery balance,

and wistful, 

they remember heaven.

They dally in the clouds.

They wheel and fall 

through still waves of fog

and taste its brine

deep in their borrowed gullets.

They wash themselves in the tumble of cloud,

preening men’s sins from their usurped feathers,

And sing.

And from this agreeable vantage

They look down at earth

to search out the uncomplicated beauties

that bind them

and brace for a return

to their hard business.