Writing

Idle Angels

I no longer resent my idle angels
cozy and sipping their tea
on new moon nights
casually talking over the sounds
of my muffled tears.

Yet when it was
the 10 year old insomniac,
the depressed mother cradling her newborn
in shame,
and the married woman with an appointment
at the clinic
their chairs were the thunder claps you heard
as they leapt to my defense.
Their tea was left cold and overflowing,
like my tears,
a rain you swore was sweet to the taste.

Their sudden and protective scattering
is so infrequent
I sometimes long to memorize
the tone of the weeping
that calls them in an instant.

I am certain they are just reminding me
that the line between
between idle and patient
is as razor thin
as the veil they are lifting today.

No I hold no resentment
for they sipped
and they waited
and they watched over me
at all new and pure beginnings.

Just as they do right now (today)
as my pen meets this paper.

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