Bronze angel, strong arms
lifting the rainbow,
you stand in the center.
Our fast cars veer around
north, then east
to shop, to school,
to home
but we can’t see
what you see.
Even the truckers,
who lumber down
Abernathy Road
and enter the circle
with heady grapes
ready for press, for barrel,
for thick, green bottle
steer past you.
Our lives are scheduled over-full.
We all have
some place else to go
until unfulfilled,
we return at last
to your bright center,
and in your embracing arms
we rest.
(16 July 2011)
