A Spirit Comes
by MFrostDelaney

It is my youth. It’s carried here on wings
of angels guarding all my memories.
Their job is more than ever’s been before
as age piles on its stones upon the peak.

The base, a kitchen with linoleum,
then built with days outside among the pines,
collecting moths that lit on back porch stairs,
some awkward teen experiments with sex.

That’s all the recollections–tiny flecks
all riding streams of flutter, cosmos airs
as if those past life years were fruitful vines
absorbing sunlit drifts.
                                    The angels’ hum
encircles me. A whirlwind leaves its streak
of melancholy stillness in its lore:
that childhood was enveloped by a breeze
of carefree summers, falls and lovely springs.

The angels whisper, Let go of the past.
The spirit whisks it all away, at last.


 

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