angelica (after reading Onemorething's beautiful poem)
Reality is a trap.
In this garden no sun warms.
Underground, worms squirm in a rootless world
as tongues before words.
But then, there, at the back, shoots
pale green, unfurl
leaves, strong as wings, pull
stems up, tall and strong – where in church
organ pipes’ sonorous voice supports believers' praise,
here, hollow cellulose soon soars above
the dank depress of soil, all sown seeds’ despairing.
High, high as a man, more, an angel, come
into this darkness to show Life’s glory.
Reach in, touch the cool fresh thriving of it and
smell! Sweet and rich and vivid as stained glass wraps you
in a gift of curing. And see, against the clouds
a flower opens, its wonderful umbrella of light
made from many small joys