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The November Angels
Jane Hirshfield
Late dazzle
of yellow
flooding
the simplified woods,
spare chipping away
of the afternoon-stone
by a small brown finch--
there is little
for them to do,
and so their gossip is
idle, modest:
low-growing,
tiny-white-flowered.
Below,
the Earth-pelt
dapples and flows
with slow bees
that spin
the thick, deep jute
of the gold time’s going,
the pollen’s
traceless retreat;
kingfishers
enter their kingdom,
their blue crowns on fire,
and feast on
the still-wealthy world.
A single, cold blossom
tumbles, fledged
from the sky’s white branch.
And the angels
look on,
observing what falls:
all of it falls.
Their hands hold
no blessings,
no word
for those who walk
in the tall black pines,
who do not
feel themselves falling--
the one s who believe
the loved companion
will hold them forever,
the one s who cross through
alone and ask for no sign.
The afternoon
lengthens, steepens,
flares out--
no matter for them.
It is assenting
that makes them angels,
neither increased
nor decreased
by the clamorous heart:
their onl y work
to shine back,
however the passing brightness
hurts their eyes.
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