How far the angels have fallen

Who once sang on high. First

One, then another, all tumbling

Out of the peach-colored clouds

Toward the earth, where they

Are scraped on mountain peaks 

And buffeted by winds before 

They plummet to the valley floor.

Soon, their saffron wings wilt

Into piles of rose petals and

Decay into mists of memory.

The angels sit. They weep

At their crippled bodies, for 

Their lost country in the sky.

They twist their fine-boned

Hands into miserable knots

Until their fingers, too, are

Broken and gnarled beyond repair.

They think, resting their pointed

Chins on their ruined hands

As the sun moves overhead

Too many times to count.

Finally, when the once-divine

Has nearly melted, deformed,

And blended into the stark

Ground, the dust of what was

Once their golden wings begins 

To shift, dancing over bumps and

Crevices towards the north. 

The angels are not as strong

As they used to be, but

The sky is clear and blue as

They rouse themselves to follow.