(from All About Angels)
They stand beneath guardian trees
their saffron garments glossed with gold.
Hands cupped, bodies bent,
they softly swell as they dip
beneath the rain.
They speak to me:
wild prophets from an ancestral book
that I believed in when I was a child,
but no longer understand.
I try to read the aroma of their lips,
their slow, small growth of gesture.
Their wings are traps
tripping my tongue
preventing me from flight.