by Mary Ann Meade

Snowing, mother reached into the furrow,
found the wing print of an angel she did not know,
an angel who in winter gave off heat,
kept mother warm when she sat

in what she called the back pew of the dayroom.
When mother died, it rained, it rained hard,
the north creek spilling into the furrow,
the spring blossom wild, wild with praise.

As for the furrow, it sunk into the earth.
That's what kin said. Though I knew the furrow
rose from the earth, the angel not wanting
to leave behind the handprint. How

she, a fallen angel, felt a hand
touching one wing, then another, the hand
digging the earth to find a lost feather,
the snow blossom wild, wild with praise.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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