By Dark Angel
Date: 2 March 2001
The Angel that I asked for
The angel that I asked for
did not arrive
with gowns of light
and flowing hair
with feet of alibaster
and face of innocence
with wings of might
and hands of cooling mercy.
She came
bruised and broken
from verbal and mental abuse
in jeans and sneakers
with hair colored
to hide the grey
with feet worn weary
from chasing children
with a care worn face
from nights of tears
without sleep
with wings on her heart
to lift her soul from dispair
with hands tired and lined
with endless chores
or responsibility
and motherhood.
She felt she came too late
for her
and for anyone.
I felt she came just in time
for herself, and for me.
See the phantom of the smile
tracing her lips now as she reads
this pitiful offering?
See how with all her learning
she is amazed by simple admiration
for what she is?
Never mind her name. She knows it.
And she has learned to find
the joy of candles
instead of neon
and yellow roses
instead of silk.
The angel that I asked for
came at last
but she didn't know it herself
it had to be pointed out to her
with a kiss.
Back to the Heart-on-Sleeve Corner