Seeing the Angel
It might have arrived out of a tangle of background detail: the roses already going over at the end of summer, the garden sprawling towards decay. If it were possible at all, it would be at one of those times in a life when you are no longer exactly who you were, but not yet who you will become. Perhaps a disorderly breeze would tousle an unkempt sky over the dying garden—a breath of disquiet, movement breaking things apart with an unsettling vision. It will be standing there then, made from the tall spaces between organic forms, forsythia and the like. From the prodigious earth, a wingless, irreligious angel. Not the angel of cold perfection and vatic pronouncement. But one of absence and imperfection, real in the way that voids between words allow them to make sense. Published in collection: Seasons of Damage and Beauty |