Light is invisible until it hits
An object or penetrates the pupil.
No effort of intelligence or will
Can else know illumination’s spirits.
Real angels, it seems, are almost the same.
She can’t exist at all until I name
Her, with sounds I can’t think, and she appears,
The breeze from her wings allaying my fears.
She carries a small bouquet of flowers
And her raised right hand is empty, no sword
Or torch — hers are the powerless powers
I dare not test with even a whispered word.
Her wings buffet me — she rises to go.
I finally speak: “Stay.” Her smile says “no.”
