A poem by Madhuri.


Some are the size of hummingbirds
and fly encased in a field of silent pink light.
Some are the size of the brush at the end
of a kangaroo rat’s tail
as it flies through a cold desert night.
Some are big as compassionate athletes.
Some are big as waterwheels;
some just the sparking of an intersection
in a bright golden grid.
Some are grand and tall with huge wings
folded calmly behind them.
Sometimes one appears above you as you walk
on a muddy, brown-leafy Autumn path –
a huge outline in the air, filled with clear nothing –
and just pulls all the worry up, out of you,
to rush into the sky.
Sometimes there are too many to count,
but you can hear
the thick susurration of the wings,
like cream
beaten in a bowl until it becomes a density,
a sound that spreads your own arms out into it,
a vibrato of purr like cats have.
Mostly the beings are made of the love-light
that exists just beyond music –
almost a shape, but not really –
more a formulation of a point where our world
touches theirs, a point made of a swooning river,
where the heart tilts backward in the impact
of something too tender, light and luminous
to bear; and the chin tilts up,
and one can only listen with the heart then,
drink in and notice what is being gifted.
The gift goes on adjusting itself back to true,
whatever angle you look from –
and for a moment or a time you are expanded
and delivered.

What is this realm of the not-quite-Invisibles,
so nearby our own?
A question, this question,
is the right answer.
The angels’ ears are easily, calmly,
harked to them.

Illustration with artwork by Amiten


Madhuri is a healer, artist, poet and author of several books, Mistakes on the Path being her latest memoir.

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