She met him on the way to Sunday school,
his hair unruly and his shoes untied,
fresh face of a boy, eyes of the man who’ll
never give in, nor bend, neither abide

when night presses down
and muffles all sound
when your wings are weary
and you would be chained

woven from threads of laughter
and acceptance.
The cloth has worn thin in places,
age, pressure and loss the culprits.
The moths of despair fed
on the weave of fellowship.

We had it made, my love, and do you think,
When looking back, it could be working still?
Well, thank you, dear. I take that potent drink
Which may protect me from this sudden chill.
I do remember being young and sure,

I love the clamor of young voices shrieking
as they play in and out of the turquoise square
which shimmers where the sun excites it.

There is sensuality in sand running through
my toes, my foot a timer for the speed
with which the sun moves.

They never saw it coming,
and there is no other transport.
Angels in handcuffs,
wings clippedclose to the shoulder blades.
Large suitcases left behindat the border