The angels are shocked
at the blondeness of the wheat,
the horizontality of the trees,
how white the pines in morning light become.
Their customary purples
cannot describe this scene,
how things don't need to move to have a being,
how they're lost in some perpetual forgetfulness
where eternities are temporary, and continual,
how they have to make some pact with rocks and grass
and rivers that with their mirrors wash away.
The sounds these things make
are what longing feels like,
as if there's something real
to threaten who they are.
And then the angels feel relieved.
