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The Angels of Hawksbill Mountain
In youth when
I was mortally in love and
writhing in dreams, I stood here
on this same cliff above this
valley of diminishing sky-waves
and softness, this
same absurd elegance spilling all
around the shaggy forest, and
I didn't weep. Imagine . . .
Nothing was supernatural about those
currents of blue or even the
blurry outline of hope over there.
I've outlived too many friends
and been reminded too many times
that the days outnumber us.
We never stood a chance.
Now who will convince me that love
is an immovable world of its own
while my wavering joy is trapped in
some clattering branches and
the eye of a squirrel?
I could plummet like Lucifer from Paradise
in that eye and talk about the twists
and turns of wood, about blackberries and
the taste of rivers, but
I'm five feet two inches of terror
and I don't speak fluent free spirit,
but still,
all the woodland creatures save me
when my blood runs with the savage
angels in their veins and
for a moment,
one encased heartbeat,
I roll around inside an outrageous
bliss that couldn't possibly
belong here
so far from Heaven.
Or is it so far?
I look closer
and I'm there.
Patricia Joan Jones
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