When I was young, I searched for angels.
I looked everywhere.
At twenty, I'd given up searching.
How could I know then, one winter night,
the gurney ice under my dreams,
that the hand rough on my forehead
was an angel's noiseless wings,
the smile in his sleepless eyes,
his otherworldly beauty?
"Rest," he said, and his gentle courage
was the silence of my sleep.
And now I know -
and perhaps it isn't late at all,
that if I'd known where to look,
I'd never have had to look at all.
Dear Mother, I called to you
and you were here before I woke up,
the laughter in your tears telling me
it was no use trying to grow up.
For wisdom comes as we learn,
and learning is but the will to trust.
And trusting now, I know to look,
and to see angels all around.
Their beauty is the quiet serenityof their love.