The Blue Angel
"I heard an angel speak last night and he said 'write'" Elizabeth Barrett Browning
T here was a cemetery across from the street where I lived when I was young.
H ot summer days could find us there strolling down its winding shady pathways,
E ven racing bikes or playing Hide ’n Seek among trees and ornate granite stones.
B eyond the wide middle part of that graveyard, way in the very back,
L ay a secluded area set apart for the deceased of a prestigious family.
U ltimately my siblings and I ended up at the mausoleum in the center of that spot.
E ager to view its main attraction, we would stand on tiptoes before its window. . . .
A ll kinds of angels were scattered throughout that cemetery's sprawling lawn, but
N ot one outdid the angel appearing violet blue through that stained glass window.
G uarding the tomb of a small child, she knelt gracefully, her true hue pure white.
E ventually after years of showing her to friends, I left home forever; on my mind
L ingers this memory; on tiptoes, I'm marveling, face pressed against blue glass.
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