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The white angels descend straight down
with their feet curled
toes to touch
the whipped cream.
And it seems.
Each one a sound catcher with
their wings as embroidered
doilies buffering heaven
from earth.
And it seems.
They touch down
and interlock into a mass of
communal insignificance
spread out like powdered sugar.
And it seems that
this insulated pane with
its broken seal inhales
the yard like old man
winter smoking his pipe
and the snow piles
up between the pains…
and it seams.
Gerald the Writer 