When the singing of the great angels ceases,
Have they gone,
Or are they merely crowded out?
When the mind fills with lists,
Scraps of metal,
Shards of memory,
The angels cannot be heard.
One angel in particular
Shadows you,
Embraces you with light,
Cradles you in sleep,
Pulls your spirit
From the earth
Like a blade
Of new grass;
Touches a coal
To your lips
And brings forth
Song.
Storms above the soul
Cause you to wonder:
Is she gone?
She is not gone.
She is behind the maelstrom
Of detritus,
Waiting for a gap
Into which she can step.
When she steps in,
The maelstrom stops,
The scree in your skull
Falls into a sacred hole
And you are reunited with her.
Find silence every day:
Carve a space for it,
Make a time for it,
Open your arms
And she will step forward.
--Mr. Gobley
