Tumbled Angel,
fragile vessel
of blood and bone.

The good daughter
of earth made flesh.

I lean into the wind
believe on stronger wings,
and still bright pinions
bear the weight of flying
on broken air.

As the crescent moon
swings low over Venus,
roosters sing the dawn;
the storm's moist kiss
of caged desire
in their desert-dry beaks.

I'll drink the wine
of starry eyed fools
who seek pretty answers
in unexpected places.

Where age will not dim
the slender awe of youth
and I awaken in the morning
to the beauty of my being,
patterned by
the velvet hand of God.