In the hush of a twilight that pools like spilled ink,
where the edge of the world is a whisper of pine,
an angel reclines on a throne carved from think,
a book in her lap like a chalice of wine.
Its cover is cedar, still fragrant with snow
that fell on the forests the winters forgot;
she opens it slowly, as one who lets go
a memory too tender to ever be caught.
The pages are frostfields—each word is a track
left soft by the fox who remembered the way;
she reads of the ranger who carried the pack
of every small creature too frightened to stay.
Her wings are of parchment—thin, trembling, and white,
inked faintly with rivers that glaciers once knew;
they flutter like letters too shy for the light,
and settle like mist on the breath of the true.
A candle of beeswax, no taller than peace,
burns steady beside her—no wick, only flame;
it drips into letters that never decrease
but grow like the quiet that follows a name.
She lingers where lovers once carved their initials
in bark that has healed into rings of regret;
her fingertip smooths till the scar grows official,
and love becomes forest, and forest forgets.
The letters rearrange while she breathes on the page—
a mountain unbuilds, then rebuilds itself whole;
a widow finds laughter, a tyrant finds age,
a desert drinks mercy and blossoms in soul.
She reads of the poet who planted a verse
beneath the old oak where the hangman once stood;
the margin grows roots, and the verse grows diverse,
and justice grows shade where the gallows once would.
Her halo is quiet—a ring of small stars
that orbit the silence no echo can fill;
she listens, then turns to the chapter that mars
the ledger of loss with a signature still.
The book is a meadow; each word is a bloom
that opens at dusk for the moths of the night;
she walks through the petals, and petals resume
the shape of the dreams that the dreamers lost sight.
She reads of the child who released the caged bird
and watched it return with a seed in its beak;
the page becomes sky, and the bird becomes word,
and freedom grows wings where the timid grow weak.
When dawn starts to tremble and night starts to fade,
she closes the book with a kiss on the spine;
the spine seals shut like a promise remade,
and morning arrives with a signature fine.
Then, folding her wings like a scholar’s last breath,
she shelves the great volume where no frost can cling;
the angel steps back, and the silence is death—
a world newly written, a debt newly singed.
And somewhere beneath a northern sky’s arc,
a stranger looks up from the snow on the street,
smiles without reason, and kindles a spark—
an angel has read him back into the sweet
unfolding of mercy no heart can withstand.
where the edge of the world is a whisper of pine,
an angel reclines on a throne carved from think,
a book in her lap like a chalice of wine.
Its cover is cedar, still fragrant with snow
that fell on the forests the winters forgot;
she opens it slowly, as one who lets go
a memory too tender to ever be caught.
The pages are frostfields—each word is a track
left soft by the fox who remembered the way;
she reads of the ranger who carried the pack
of every small creature too frightened to stay.
Her wings are of parchment—thin, trembling, and white,
inked faintly with rivers that glaciers once knew;
they flutter like letters too shy for the light,
and settle like mist on the breath of the true.
A candle of beeswax, no taller than peace,
burns steady beside her—no wick, only flame;
it drips into letters that never decrease
but grow like the quiet that follows a name.
She lingers where lovers once carved their initials
in bark that has healed into rings of regret;
her fingertip smooths till the scar grows official,
and love becomes forest, and forest forgets.
The letters rearrange while she breathes on the page—
a mountain unbuilds, then rebuilds itself whole;
a widow finds laughter, a tyrant finds age,
a desert drinks mercy and blossoms in soul.
She reads of the poet who planted a verse
beneath the old oak where the hangman once stood;
the margin grows roots, and the verse grows diverse,
and justice grows shade where the gallows once would.
Her halo is quiet—a ring of small stars
that orbit the silence no echo can fill;
she listens, then turns to the chapter that mars
the ledger of loss with a signature still.
The book is a meadow; each word is a bloom
that opens at dusk for the moths of the night;
she walks through the petals, and petals resume
the shape of the dreams that the dreamers lost sight.
She reads of the child who released the caged bird
and watched it return with a seed in its beak;
the page becomes sky, and the bird becomes word,
and freedom grows wings where the timid grow weak.
When dawn starts to tremble and night starts to fade,
she closes the book with a kiss on the spine;
the spine seals shut like a promise remade,
and morning arrives with a signature fine.
Then, folding her wings like a scholar’s last breath,
she shelves the great volume where no frost can cling;
the angel steps back, and the silence is death—
a world newly written, a debt newly singed.
And somewhere beneath a northern sky’s arc,
a stranger looks up from the snow on the street,
smiles without reason, and kindles a spark—
an angel has read him back into the sweet
unfolding of mercy no heart can withstand.
The Sunday Circle