The light of morning
breaks over the horizon,
spills a yellow glow,

traces across your wall
the image of an angel.

You know it’s only
the harvest of the season,
the Earth as it turns,

only the prism of dawn,
only the shadows of chance.

Still, that angel
draws your eye, calls as it
fades in the glare of the day,

leaves you, trying to trace
the pattern of its presence.

On your way to work,
still a guy on the corner,
still a prayer for help;

you stop, and drop a dollar—
when he whispers a blessing,

you think of the angel,
the gravity of its light,
like a black hole,

how it seemed to curve, bend
the fabric of everything.

Parallax Views

4P Creations

Text and Photographs, Copyright © 2006 by Gary S. Rosin