Christmas Eve, date unknown
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Digital image courtesy of the Library of Congress
Overnight, the angel
pitches headfirst
into the snow crust
during a February gust.
Her rope remains
suspended, but relieved
of its object, it sways idle
and free, a frayed
cow’s tail, remnants
of a diner bell pull.
It’s two weeks before
the neighbor retrieves her
so two weeks she lays, tail feathers
jutting from snow bank
in a visible finger of blame
at the sky. And now
he’s dug her out.
On his small snow kingdom
that spans from porch
and street, he stands
holding his question mark
of a face to the outstretched
trumpet beyond her nose:
what to do
with a lady like this?
In the hands of a human,
she’s bigger than you would
imagine, big enough
to do some damage
should she discover
her trapezius and decide to flap
those awful metal wings.