On the earth of my childhood
angels lift wings buoyant
as boughs. Littering seeds
the wind among angels
plays a music like the sea’s,
evergreen, needled, splashing
like rain. On that earth,
angels sink deep roots, grow tall
in their own shadows,
do not leave us
despite God’s muttering visions,
despite our feet, uprooted,
incessant. On the earth
of my childhood bright heads
lift at the faintest breeze,
whisper green,
under the wings of birds.