Water Brother

When I see the brown hills lying
coldly in the sly distance
or the clouds     having lost their ocean
looking for a place to weep
or the crystal drop on the still leaf tip 
                                                                   
falls—
I remember the angels
   perfumed and ancient as midnight
   new as silver of the waxing moon
who first spoke to me of death.

At dawn I went to the hill that sleeps
and called their names
      loudly    
louder and louder
until even the snakes in their dens
shuddered
     then softly I called them
      quietly whispering each name
until there was no sound at all
          but the tolling of a distant bell . . .

It was then they came—
sursum corda—
scratching the sky, reaching through
the timeless blue dream with their talons
clawing long blazing marks in the wind

and in that moment,
      sweet inconsolable water brother—
one mad despised flower
          with no petals at all/with translucent, golden petals
growing beneath the bridge/beneath the fig tree
    laughing to itself
        bird on the morning breeze
            empty of everything but light
               bloomed

asha