There’s always this interval between
when you arrive — so easily,
it seems, though from so very far away —
and when we do, exhausted, footsore,
dusty from the road, though we
come only from before, and come
to think of it it’s marvellous
that we catch up with you at all,
or that we’re granted this brief Stille,
time touching time in some out-of-the-way place.
We had to invent angels, to notice.
(first published in the Atlanta Review)
|Image by Girts Gailans, courtesy of Red Edge|