Angels Crossing

What would random color do?

If the silver line of a morning rising, crossed

the ash trail of an angel falling,

to meet the steel movement of time

measured in the ambers of a slow walk?

A hesitant word, a gesture whispering,

the edge of light about to unfold - not quite.

Do you think we might have found that path again, lost in these mists?

If only,

   we had followed

those traces

of sketched wings.

Our strokes random,

we lost our way,

as we forgot that within movement

threads unravel.

Unseen.

Clustered on winter lines,

we held to time, still

believing that darkness

is the absence of color

when really, within her embrace

the unseen rises as

the winter moon