Angels of things
drift lazily in crisp air
tasting autumn fruits
carrying them to the gods
quietly waiting.

In entwining roots
buried in plushy ground
they are; in rare earth
that could if it would
grow around and devour
spew me up as cedar
as pine – needled and tall.

Shadows of autumn
leave quivering trails
through golden leaves.
Fallen angels drift down
through and around
all that I can see
and more and more.

A thrilly deep tremor
as thrusting wings
push from a molten core -.
bursts as a bubble.

Time trails into ether
ceasing to be anything at all.
Space shakes and drifts away.
There, on the fountain’s rim,
perch the Angels of things
as birds drinking deeply
taking wing as thoughts
as sweet dreams in flight.

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Portland, Oregon – October 20, 2020