Every blade of grass has an angel that bends over it and whispers, “Grow, grow.”
—The Talmud
Imagine them, all those angels
jostling over the field,
catching their hands
in each other’s halos,
their wings a shimmering
fuss. Imagine the rising tide
of the chorus, how
whisper turns clamor
turns turbulent roar.
Imagine the dizzying pitch
of encouragement, grow,
Grow, GROW, until bam!
a riotous tumult of green.
But what of the song
at the end of the season,
when angels, exhausted,
sigh rest, rest. And they press
their tired cheeks against
each other’s faces, let
their wings dangle
in lucent grace. And the field,
seeded, relaxes and goldens
and sleeps. And the angels
snuggle in sacred heaps and breathe,
and breathe, white robes
like snow, and they sleep talk
between their sonorous snores,
that’s enough, dear one, let go.
This is masterful. Thank you!
Thank you … the quote really got me going ..
It got you going in a very good way! 🙂
i’d never seen them before
Fantastic – in imagery and in scope, perspective
thanks, Jazz! it was fun to see the field anew … and see the angels at all!
When I read this, I let out a sigh at the end, saying Oh how perfect! Thank you.
what a great response, thank you!