Angel Song

Night after night, I wax and wane, pour all that I love into bowls silver-lighted along your windowsill. I watch you bend over, reach, touch each. A jeweller intent—setting wheels into gears with rubies. Music for the eye to remember in the morning when you rise open the door to the garden and say, The leaves have gone now. Only the Small-leafed Southern Maples hold the last red. I know everything we touch burns away. Yet we give ourselves again and again. Is it enough that in the end our two shadows both silvered in the light we share stand thus on the red edge of the world? John McDowell is a poet, artist, and professor, and the dean of arts at Burman University. His poetry and photography have been featured on past Spectrum covers, and his essays have appeared in the journal. This poem was featured in the Winter 2013 edition of Spectrum (volume 41, issue 1). Image: Unsplash / Nong Vang We invite you to join our community through conversation by commenting below. We ask that you engage in courteous and respectful discourse. You can view our full commenting policy by clicking here.

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Lovely…enjoyed it. Thank-you.

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