our every breath, rich with their spirit;
invisibility is their modesty.
To be unheeded, that’s OK too,
it’s the humility of love.
Angels; and those we call
spirits of another kind.
A harsh duty on those ‘daimons’,
to bring us woes that test us
for our later good. Our curses
mean to them, but duty done.
They too as all the rest
gazing only to their Source;
yet sometimes, sent as messengers;
their message clear, their journey
perhaps joyful with it;
their gaze is now on human kind.
What do they think of us?
Or are they past all thought?
Or, rich in the understanding
of our mortal souls?
Do they, announcing to that Mary
a miracle,
smile as they deliver?
How much do they reveal of Him?
Or do they in that instant
become her own humility?
The air, honey-gold with wonder;
we, breathing angels,
angels breathing us.