In response to the Sandyhook massacre in Connecticut, I found myself grieving deeply for the parents who are now living with new and permanent gaping holes.
My own little son played innocently at my feet and I smiled faintly at him, distracted by a heavy cloud of sadness.
I felt cheated for the families who have been robbed of these moments with their own kids, moments that are the reward for the life's work that is guiding someone through childhood and beyond.
I felt the need to speak to them, to mourn with them, and I wondered what they might have said upon departing from their children that morning, had they only known what would transpire and could do nothing to stop it.
This poem came out of that wondering.
Have I told you about angels?
Have I talked about their wings?
Old and warm and wide as hills
And feathered at the ends.
Have I described their voices,
Soft and spun like gold?
Always close enough to hear
And lighter than the snow.
There's a song they tend to carry
It's one you've always known.
I couldn't sing it if I tried
When you hear it, you will know.
I need to tell you of their arms
Long and soft and strong
They'll pull you into safety
And carry you from harm.
Have I told you that you've changed me
In ways you'll never know?
I don't know how you found me
But I'll never let you go.
Have I told you about angels
And how far they can fly?
Have I told you that you're with them?
Have I told you now you're mine?