the november angels

.

Late dazzle

of yellow

flooding

the simplified woods, 

spare chipping away

of the afternoon-stone

by a small brown finch—

there is little

for them to do,

and so their gossip is

idle, modest:

low-growing,

tiny-white-flowered.

Below,

the Earth-pelt 

dapples and flows 

with slow bees 

that spin

the thick, deep jute

of the gold time’s going,

the pollen’s

traceless retreat; 

kingfishers

enter their kingdom,

their blue crowns on fire,

and feast on

the still-wealthy world.

A single, cold blossom 

tumbles, fledged

from the sky’s white branch.

And the angels

look on,

observing what falls: 

all of it falls.

Their hands hold

no blessings,

no word

for those who walk

in the tall black pines,

who do not

feel themselves falling—

the ones who believe

the loved companion

will hold them forever,

the ones who cross through 

alone and ask for no sign.

The afternoon 

lengthens, steepens,

flares out—

no matter for them.

It is assenting

that makes them angels,

neither increased 

nor decreased

by the clamorous heart:

their only work 

to shine back,

however the passing brightness 

hurts their eyes.

~ Jane Hirshfield

 from Of Gravity and Angels