Let this angel speak: yes, her.
She has something to say, this one
White-haired crone of a bent spirit.
Wings are a bit raggedy and sparse,
But they soar smoothly enough;
Great power covering fragile feathers.
She sees brightness in the distance.
I can see her peering through a prism,
And then she opens a creased mouth.
She speaks but not words: light.
(A feather drops) Is this her voice,
Then, this fountain of colored light?
A voice of light? What does it mean?
Wrong question; ah, it’s the feeling,
Not the seeing, not the hearing.
Not the meaning. Feeling colors!
But it works—love made visible,
Flowing forever from her mouth.
©2011 Joanne Sprott
