Angelus

They stand in the rough skin of God,

the worked yellow bracken,

ankle high, bled pale.

They yield to barn and bell,

hands that worship the architecture of creation,

the strength of dead wood and iron work.

Slats and struts, metal bound,

protect stores

of dead

hay bales, dead corn and grain.

A dried-blood monument

commands lives

during the pale, orange wave of morning.

A different landscape

in dark indigo night,

Royal purple,

which mends the broken skin.

The wooden frame belies

this painted scene,

the absence.