Aloft
maybe the gods
could set fire
to the paper of my wings
so I might be a comet
and people could trace
my path
I have fashioned
this fall of feathers
here in the morning
on the bench beside you
of course I’m imitating
the real thing
the divinity of art
but isn’t that what we all do
when we learn at first
just copying
then wider and wider circles
until we spin in the sky
the one we’ve lifted our brush
to paint across
with the most
passionate colors
that we can imagine
Angel by Abbott Handerson Thayer
