Notebook 011

The Waiting Game
April 17 2005

Your head is strained upwards.
You chin, the highest point of your form.
Hands resting on feet whilst knees aren't bent, you pull your head up to the sky.
You are fixed upon terra firma, but only the sky can see it.
No buildings, no cities, just the curve of the earth and breeze in your hair.
The sky weighs upon your eyes as you focus on air.

An angel.
Great winged in flight approaches within a blink.
His expression; blank, his body; uncovered.
Eyes lock and pupils flutter.
He stands on your feet, embraces your hands.
Cupping the the cold, softening your knuckles.
Feathers surround till it is just you and his presence.

Winds stop.
Sounds pause.


His lips speak movement.
His tongue becomes voice.




Then, within the blink that he entered; he departs.

With a kiss.
Eyes closed in his softness.


He smiles. And returns.




Your head strains upwards.
Chin the highest point of your form.
You are fixed on terra firma, but only the sky.....

....and I can see it.