Among Angels Read Free

afford
    the Grand Canyon,
    a clipper at full sail,
    my own face in the glass,
    everything washed in heavenly light,
    and nothing with a right to it, except
    an angel in the middle,
    as comfortable on her cloud
    as if she were waiting for the bus
    and to make the time go faster
    playing her harp, which she leaned
    against her right shoulder,
    showing me how to hold my harp,
    knowing what I needed to know,
    and giving me private lessons.
    â€” NANCY WILLARD

An Inconvenience of Wings
    In my book of prayers I studied
    the picture of Saint Peter, leather apron,
    keys at his belt, waking the souls
    in their heavenly orphanage.
    On the nightstand by each bed
    gleams a blue pitcher,
    a white cup, and candlestick.
    It is clean there.
    Six souls share the ewer and basin,
    soap and towel. Between their cots
    twelve slippers nap side by side
    like cats on the cloud floor.
    It is cold there. The souls curl
    under their quilts, wings hugging
    their backs. How terrible for them
    when a foot tingles,
    a wing turns pins and needles.
    â€œGrowing pains,” my mother said
    when leg cramps staggered me from bed.
    â€œStand up. Put your weight on it.”
    â€” NANCY WILLARD

Angels fly because they take themselves lightly.
    â€” G. K. Chesterton
    Angels Fly
    Angels fly
    because
    they take themselves
    lightly between the thumb
    and forefinger,
    and lift themselves
    above the casual world.
    Angels fly
    because
    they take themselves
    lightly as flour on a board,
    rising in yeasty splendor
    into the bowl of the sky.
    Angels fly
    because
    they take themselves
    lightly as sun
    on dark water,
    breaking into motes
    that float along the tumbling stream.
    Angels fly
    because
    they take themselves
    lightly above
    the gravity
    of any situation.
    Angels fly
    because
    they take themselves
    lightly.
    â€” JANE YOLEN

The Winged Ones
    No birthday gift whiter or stranger
    than this large pair of wings
    my son bought on Amsterdam Avenue.
    Pressed from celluloid, thick
    as a toenail; two basins
    that crease the morning light
    in deeply stamped feathers.
    A fossil from heaven. The tag
    warns: “Not intended for flight.”
    â€œOne size fits all,” you assure me
    and unfold the intricate harness
    and buckle the wings to my body
    that never sprang from a sill
    or plotted the air through a thicket
    or turned on the lathe of a wind
    that could snuff out the breath in me
    and toss me out of my garden.
    There’s no finer sight in summer
    than yourself wearing them,
    making the rounds in Eden,
    inspecting the spotted throat
    of the lily, the fern’s plumage,
    stepping behind your girl
    quiet as mint on the move
    in the woods where the owl lives
    and hugging her where the gate was,
    angel who forgives.
    â€” NANCY WILLARD

Metamorph
    I have given away my wings;
    a feather on the mantle reminds me;
    each bird song recalls that transformation.
    My shoulders, like a mother’s memory book,
    hold aches as painful as old photographs.
    Nothing, nothing is truly given away.
    When Lucifer streaked across
    God’s clean sky,
    we did not see the writing on it
    for a thousand thousand
    light-stained years.
    â€” JANE YOLEN

Angel Feather
    Here is the quill,
    Here the vane,
    A hymnal of ivory,
    A canticle of bone.
    We rise with the light,
    Benedicte to the dawn,
    Dive arrow-slim into the East
    And with a prayer—
    gone.
    â€” JANE YOLEN

Angel in a Window
    Night has fallen in Gethsemane so fast
    it bruises the lilies of the field.
    Over the altar, the angel
    in tailored moss and russet wings
    still hovers above the acolyte
    who touches his wand to the tapers
    and wakes them for vespers.
    With their brass collars turned,
    two flames bow to each other.
    In the dark suburbs
    to the right of the altar
    prayer candles flicker among themselves
    like deaf children in the park
    after supper, waiting
    for the big lights to wake
    over the empty field.
    â€” NANCY WILLARD

Lucifer
    Turning and turning,
    He falls fair
    Into the