Vision

Now in my established years I want
to see angels again, my childhood visions
revisited with a smiling heart, not pounding.
And I wonder, do they come and go,
wary and silent, but maybe only seemingly so.
Perhaps they chatter and slam but in a different
pitch unavailable to my inner ears. And
perhaps, breezing, they move harm aside,
a broken branch from heavy storms that falls
and decays unnoticed in the woods. But
sometimes I catch their frolic like leaves
and say, “breeze,” but not “angels.” Or
maybe I have stuck my fingers in my eyes, and
I am (and we all are) Tieresius, striding strong
towards a shining prophetic future, but living each
right now moment in blackness, where all future
moments are born small children, around whom
the angels pirouette.

— VH McKinnie

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