Bluebirds slipped a little tremble out of the triangle of his mouth
And it hung in the air until it reached my ear
Like a froth or a frill that Schumann
Might have written in a dream.
Dear morning you come with so many angels of mercy
So wondrously disguised in feathers, in leaves,
In the tongues of stones, in the restless waters,
In the creep and the click and the rustle
That greet me wherever I go
With their joyful cry: I’m still here, alive!
My angels of mercy this morning:
Tropical lofty clouds framing the ocean with the light of the new born sun
A stranger who offered me her apartment while I visit Puerto Rico
The stray dog, the stray cat, my stray thoughts
The chance to serve, and to be served
The creep and the click of my arthritic knees
To breathe.
Who or what are you angels of mercy this day?
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