Winter Garden at Twilight
American Crepuscular

The snow has gone blue,
that prima donna blue
of the crepuscule,  
and the inkberry bush
outside this window is dark,
its flawless leaves
a scrim like a school
of tiny fish over the snow.
The stones in the stone wall
are hibernating, ever content
to be cold or hot, or old,
older than oxygen.

And just above the stones,
a spray of tiny lights
rests in, glows in the snow,
the warm lights
a flock of something—
angels, apparently,
come to earth
So the heart leaps,
the mind leaps,
Oh, there are angels
after all, and they are here
in this winter twilight,

descended, or fallen —

or always here
and just now revealing
the garden-variety
light of their faces,
their deep peace
and illustrious wings,
even now,
especially now,
in the time of flames,
as the rough beasts,
long born, have slouched
into our national house.

First published in Homage, 2025
Homage: Travel Stories & Essays | Poems | Contents At-A-Glance