Too much of something in the way of angels
has been flying overhead and dropping
digital illusions on our sullen task and grief—-
a moon-beamed manna in a splendid light
with sorceries to turn a cynic desert
of deep yearning into rivers of belief.
Shortly hereafter there will be too many
books to read, for which there is no need.
Great is our gratitude, and much too much
we eat, we drink and much we almost say
before it is too late, but don’t say after all;
we stagger off to bed with our big heads
and rise at daybreak like a tribe possessed
to gulp our coffee, drive a bee line to the mall.
Shortly hereafter there’ll be hell to pay, but
at the least, we will have had a feast.
Too many leaves have fallen, cut loose
last night when a wild wind woke us with its
hellish howl among the maples, ash, and oak;
now in the morning light they lie in layers
thick, damp, limp as tiny landlocked wings
whose former ties to angels broke.
Shortly hereafter, there’ll be lots of raking
we must do, before the work is through.