You are as quiet as the grave. The head turned, your eyes averted, as though gazing at infinitudes of inwardness. Silent as the stone, you might seem astonished by the infidelities of time. The other angels are all gone.
Departure is the deepest loss.
You remain, your wings stretched for flight, bereft of leaving, poised on stillness. And you look into that space, centre that is everywhere within, where God appears so suddenly alive and always. It had all the possibilities. Sometimes, you would simply take your favourite doll and tell it all those secrets. In this moment every tree is other than its darkest branching.