In the lateness of the day,

deep into the dark woods,

the sun rushing to jump over the hills,

sending the angels to dance on the old

wooden planks,

the laughter of children,

lighting the windows,

with discovery and yearning.

I thought it was on fire,

but it was just the spirits singing.

I can see the angels,

dancing on their ears,

blowing on bugles,

catching spiders,

and setting them free.

I asked the angels for advice,

how to rush backwards in time,

for one more chance in the tree

house, one more night to make memories

and dream dreams, and shiver at the coyotes crying in the woods,

and listen to the songs of the frogs

in the pond.

One more dance in the parade,

but I knew it was not to be.

They peeked through the windows,

giggling and laughing at me,

whispering behind the tattered curtains.

“We cannot say anything,” they sang in a sing song chorus,

“that you do not already know.”

I Just Felt Like Talking.